


Shifting Sands

by Dusty_Skyes



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: 100 percent complete, Femslash, Het, Multi, Slash, Soulmate AU, Time Travel, but not at the same time, but still ongoing, singles duos trios oh my, updated whenever the train arrives, whoops my hand slipped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8382511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Skyes/pseuds/Dusty_Skyes
Summary: Soulmarks are ever changing. They always have been, and they always will be. No one knows why they appeared, or even when, just that they merely are. The little marks can be anything, from a picture, to a symbol, to a word, or even a phrase; but no matter what, it will always symbolize the being they belong to. And that is the challenge. Soulmarks belong to anyone, and everyone. Some are platonic, some are romantic, some are a bond of brotherhood. They change, too, shifting in and out as time passes by.
     But the one thing that remains, is always constant, is the fact that you will only have a mark if you will meet that person. If you never meet someone, you will never bear their mark on your skin. It has always been as simple as that. Those that are born before you will not bear your mark until your own birth.
     Death is another constant. Upon the end of the other half of the bond, the mark will shatter, removing itself from the owner's skin. It's painless, and some never even realize a mark is gone; for it has long since been replaced by another one.
    Life is fleeting, and soulmarks even more so.





	1. Of Gray-White Plates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/gifts).



> Inspired by a conversation with [Kuraiummei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei). Don't take this seriously. Also, I'm stealing Kuraiummei's ages for Garrus, Nihlus, and Saren. Garrus is a year older than Saren, and Nihlus is three years younger than Saren.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus is reborn with many soulmarks. He recognizes all of them.

     Soulmarks are ever changing. They always have been, and they always will be. No one knows why they appeared, or even when, just that they merely are. The little marks can be anything, from a picture, to a symbol, to a word, or even a phrase; but no matter what, it will always symbolize the being they belong to. And that is the challenge. Soulmarks belong to anyone, and everyone. Some are platonic, some are romantic, some are a bond of brotherhood. They change, too, shifting in and out as time passes by.

     But the one thing that remains, is always constant, is the fact that you will only have a mark if you will meet that person. If you never meet someone, you will never bear their mark on your skin. It has always been as simple as that. Those that are born before you will not bear your mark until your own birth.

     Death is another constant. Upon the end of the other half of the bond, the mark will shatter, removing itself from the owner's skin. It's painless, and some never even realize a mark is gone; for it has long since been replaced by another one.

    Life is fleeting, and soulmarks even more so.

**oOo**

     Garrus Vakarian is born with several soulmarks. _Or rather_ , he thinks, amused, as he eyes his tiny hands with minute annoyance, _reborn_. The mark on the back of his hand is new though; the profile of an Asari done in blue with the familiar purple speckled markings of Liara. Beside Liara's mark, is another Asari, facing towards the _nais_. Samara, he realizes within a few seconds. On the palm of that hand is Aria; the ruler of Omega's markings making them easy to identify. Further up his arm, practically burned into a still-soft plate are the red eyes of Wrex, complete with the scar. On his other arm is Thane's dark eyes, glowing blue with biotics. Javik's yellow eyes, the ones with the twin pupils, sit quietly on the palm of his hand. A nearby plate on his wrist is decorated with the red _Familia Notas_ of Nyreen.  She's three years older than him, if Garrus remembers right. Mordin's speckles scatter themselves across a plate on his thigh, complete with a syringe.

     He stares at them for a long while, completely lost, then opens his mouth to ask, " _What the hell?_ " and jerks when it comes out as a wail.

     Right, he's approximately two hours old. This.....this is going to get very old, very fast.

     Two days later, with a mix of pure luck and a passing mirror, Garrus spots a flower on his right shoulder and a large law book on his spine. It takes about fifteen seconds for him to realize that those marks represent his parents. He still has no idea what they mean.

     He's a year old, just three months past his begetting day when another mark appears. It takes the place of Liara's--though hers is not gone, just moved to his shoulder-- and he stares at it for a second, just as lost as the first time he saw them. It belongs to Saren, that much is clear, for it's his glowing, blue biotic eyes, surrounded by a long wreath of what Garrus can only assume to be his Valluvian horns. It's oddly mystifying. He wonders why he has it.

     When Garrus is four, another mark appears. He eyes it carefully, groaning under his breath when who it represents finally clicks in his brain. Somehow, he's not surprised though. He already has Saren, why shouldn't he get Nihlus as well? Another look and he touches the crossed daggers with the air of the resigned, idly wondering what they mean.

     At the age of five, Garrus finally, _finally_ , learns what they are. His _mari_ sits him at a table in the  _madlis_ , breathes in slowly, and tells him. They're soulmarks; the marks of people he will meet. People he'll consider family. Their relationships are whatever he wants them to be. Platonic, familial, romantic.... It all depends on what he chooses. Then she quietly gets up and leaves him there to his own thoughts. Garrus huffs a breath and makes a beeline towards his own room, towards the mirror that he knows hangs on the back of the door. Once inside, and alone with no one to interrupt, he yanks off his shirt. His _mari's_ flower, such a pretty wood sorrel in the palest of pink, sits neatly on his shoulder, looking very much like someone painted it onto the plate. Further down, wrapped around his arm is his _patrem's_. It's no longer a law book, but the words, " _A Vakarian always follows the law_ " and Garrus glares at it, hating it immensely. His _patrem's_ a liar. He knows that well.

     And, before his surprised eyes, the tattoo shifts, now reading, " _Do as I say, not as I do_ " and the small Turian laughs until he can't breathe, and then laughs some more. The next morning, he saunters past his parents, sees his _mari_ eye the new writing, and ignores his _patrem's_ blustering as his _mari_ laughs until she's wheezing for air.

**oOo**

     Zaeed is the first to appear; the bounty hunter's scar and Jessie wrapping themselves around his ankle when he is seven years old. His _mari_ asks him about it; wondering how he can have so many soulmarks already, but Garrus smiles, clamps down on his subvocals, and lies through his teeth, saying he doesn't know who any of them are. He tells his _pari_ the same thing, all the while seething in contained rage. They're meddling. And he hates it. Two months later, James Vega and Jacob Taylor materialize one after the other. James is a deck of cards, situating themselves upon his kneecap, and Jacob is simply a pair of dark lips and a beard residing on the back of his calf. Garrus recognizes both of them immediately. For the first time, he wonders what _his_ soulmark is. Then he thinks about his time on Omega as Archangel, cringes, and decides that he's better off not knowing at all.

     At the age of fifteen, Garrus enters the military, already knowing what he wants to do. He's gonna be the best damn sniper that anyone has ever seen. This time, no one will ever be able to stop him. This time, when he's pulled aside and recommended for Spectre training, Garrus shakes his head no, and quietly says, "My father would never let me become a Spectre. He'll most likely block me," and heads down the hall, leaving a very surprised Spectre behind.

     Approximately half a year later, another mark appears on his waist, inking itself into the plates there as he watches with an amused quirk of his mandibles. It's the ship, the _Normandy_ , and he laughs at the thought that Shepard is now on the land. She'll raise hell once she's old enough. He can't wait to be back on her ship. Not long after that, Kaidan's gun appears, bright with biotics and a gray eye painted upon the side. He's probably only a few months younger than Shepard, and Garrus relishes at the thought that they'll soon meet again. It's going to be glorious. And destructive. And everything else in between.

     Then Kasumi is born; and he recognizes her by the dagger with her lip mark on the blade, followed only days later by Ashley's signature pink helmet, and Garrus laughs at the thought of those two having almost the same birthday. Miranda appears low on his inner thigh, almost brushing against Jacob's mark, the Cerberus symbol done in glowing blue biotics. Garrus hides that one, making sure that it isn't bared. He already takes flack for being a crack-shot sniper; he doesn't need more for Miranda's symbol.

     Then, at the age of twenty, Garrus is making his way through the ranks in C-Sec, when Tali's mark appears. It's her purple helmet, covered by a familiar shawl, and he snickers into his report. His omni-tool pings and he glances curiously at it, brow-plates rising when he sees that Saren has just been made a Spectre; feels the pride of the white-gray plated Turian through his mark. The  _torin_ is only nineteen. Suddenly, Garrus is acutely aware of how  _young_ Saren is and his eyes narrow, anger coursing through him. Stupid, fucking council. Some days he just wants to shoot them all.

     Jack is the last mark to appear, he thinks, eying the tattoo with vague amusement. It covers a good chunk of his waist, and Garrus can easily trace each and every one of the violent biotic's tattoos by heart. His _mari_ is horrified when she sees them--all because she called him while he was in the middle of changing and saw them. When the whole situation degrades into his _patrem_ shouting about him consorting with riffraff. It's the first time Garrus has _ever_ hung up on his _patrem_ mid-call.

     He enjoys it immensely; more so than he probably should.

**oOo**

     Sometimes, Garrus finds with some annoyance, the marks flare up. They shift and move along his skin and plates, like living, breathing tattoos. Extreme emotion; anger, hate, joy, annoyance and bliss all come through, phantom echoes of what their owner is feeling. Frustration, however, comes through loud and clear. It reaches the point where he has to start meditating, just so he can remain calm and in control of his own emotions.

     Other days, Garrus finds himself practically floating on a cloud of bliss, the happy emotions of the other marks elevating him to the point where he could be stabbed and not care. It's a dangerous feeling. He meditates more.

     Some day; he hopes it comes soon, they'll all be on the ship. Together.

     Maybe this time he can find a little spot of happiness all of his own. The smile on his mandibles lasts him well into the night.


	2. Of White-Gray Plates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saren is born with four soulmarks. (He recognizes three of them)

     Saren is born with four soulmarks, the colors inked into gray hide and plate. At the age of five, he examines them carefully. His _pari's_ is a blade, gleaming and strong across his back, stretching from his shoulders down to the small of his back. _Mari_ is a flower, he doesn't know what it is, just that it's pretty. Many bright pink tendrils reach for the sky, surrounding a cone-shaped yellow center. Saren pokes it quietly, fascinated by its color and shape. Desolas' mark spans the entirety of his right palm, his _fraten's_ markings surrounding a silver eye.

     There is one mark he doesn't recognize. One that not even his parents know. It's a face, a gleaming face with slanted empty eyes and a grinning mouth that fractures the face in two. It's settled itself on his right thigh, but it's always moving, shifting and drifting lazily across his skin where the others are content to stay in place. It terrifies him, and the thought of it actually belonging to someone makes him fear the mark more. What kind of being could have.... that for a mark?!

     He doesn't know, and he's not sure he even wants to find out.

     The fifth mark upon his skin, came in, according to his _mari_ , somewhere after his third birthday. It's a pair of crossed daggers. He wonders who it belongs to, wonders what their owner is like. Sometimes he feels things, a burst of laughter bubbling up in his chest, anger clouding his mind, never ending sadness, and can't help but let them through. He doesn't think much of it. That same year is when he figures out what his _mari's_ mark is. It's a Eucalyptus flower, bright and cheerful and native to the Earth continent of Australia.

     Then, when Saren is eight years old, his _mari_ dies. She's been sick for a while, steadily getting worse, and he'd gone out into the orchards of the _madlis_ to fetch her some fruit like she had asked. He's halfway back towards the house when he staggers, stops dead, and stares at his _mari's_ mark situated on the back of his hand. The flower wilts, crumbles, and then drifts from his skin to the ground in a shower of dried petals and dead leaves until there's nothing but bare flesh behind. From inside the house, his _fraten_ screams their _mari's_ name. Distantly, through the haze of grief and pain, Saren can hear himself screaming.

     Their _pari_ doesn't last long, not after _mari's_ death, and the Turian just sort of fades away. Desolas is taking care of him now, his _fraten_ smoothly taking over where he is needed. They're in Saren's room, reading quietly, when the sword on Desolas' arm cracks and shatters. Saren shakes out the sleeve of his shirt, eyes widening at the sight of the metal-dust that drifts to the ground, and then promptly breaks into tears. Desolas is crying, too, and presses his face into pale fringe, hugging his tiny _fraten_ close to him.

     Saren sleeps with Desolas for years, terrified that his _fraten_ is going to leave him like their _mari_ and _pari_ did.

     Three soulmarks. Those are all the marks Saren has, and all of the ones he will have. Desolas, the daggers, and the gleaming face.

**oOo**

     The first time he discovers that one can feel emotion through the marks is when he's officially named a Spectre. Underneath the pride he feels at gaining the position, there's a burning anger, aimed directly at the council; it's almost like he wants to rip out his gun and shoot them all right then and there. The feeling isn't his, he realizes with a sense of dread, and can't help but wonder why someone would want to do that sort of thing.

     A more thorough search of the feeling comes with the vaguest sense of someone being too young.  _Oh_ , he thinks, stepping into the shadows now that the ceremony is over,  _I see. Don't worry about me. I'm fine,_ he projects and feels the anger ebb away until only the smallest amount of disgust remains, aimed directly at Sparatus. Eventually, that, too, fades into nothing.

     When Saren is twenty two, he runs across the owner of the twin daggers. A _torin_ , only three years younger than him, spitting curses at the mercenaries who have him pinned. He's firing quickly, occasionally pausing to hurl a dagger through the air, and Saren can't help but step in. A quick glow of biotics, and the men are disposed of; hurled off of the cliff that they'd been next to. The carmine-plated Turian turns to him, scowling deeply. "I suppose I should be thankful for help from a Spectre, much less Saren fucking Arterius," he mutters, "but I had that well in hand."

     "Of course," Saren returns flatly, and his subvocals are asking if the other needs his head checked. "I'm sure you did." He crosses his arms, unknowingly revealing the crossed daggers mark that decorates the back of his hand.

     "Hey!" the other says, green eyes blowing wide, "that's my mark!"

     Saren pauses, looks down at said mark in question, and then frowns. "Prove it."

     A second later, a palm is shoved at him. He glances at it, blinking when he recognizes his own glowing eyes, surrounded by what looks to be his Valluvian horns. "Oh," he says quietly. "That makes sense."

     "I'm Nihlus," the carmine-plated _torin_ says with a mandible-spreading grin. "Nihlus Kryik."

     "The rankbanger?"

     "Ugh," Nihlus mutters with a scowl. "I hate that name."

     "If the shoe fits...." Saren rolls his eyes upwards and wonders at the fact that he's using a Human expression. Nihlus makes a face at him, sticking out his long, flexible tongue. "I suppose I should take a student...." He trails off and clicks his tongue, watching as the other's eyes grow wide enough that he worries about them popping out of the _torin's_ head.

     "Me?" Nihlus breathes reverently. "A Spectre? HELL YEAH!"

      Saren's smile is sharp, gleaming with teeth. "You're going to have to survive my training."

     ".....Oh, fuck." Saren cackles all the way back to his ship, his mandibles spreading with an unholy grin.

**oOo**

     They discover, only two months later, that both of them have the grinning face. "I’m kind of surprised we both have it. I wonder who it belongs to.” Nihlus curiously pokes it, frowning when the face slithers away from the touch and glides onto a nearby plate. He pokes it again, snorting under his breath as it shimmies into the crook of his elbow.

     Saren shrugs, raising one shoulder the slightest amount, his subvocals rumbling with amusement. "I do not know, " he says. "But I’m also not sure if I want to know who it belongs to."

     "I’ll say. " The carmine-plated Spectre-in-training huffs a breath and rolls his eyes upwards towards the roof of Saren's ship. "It's honestly creepy," Nihlus adds, eying the thing with a look of mock disdain. Seconds later, he yelps loudly when the face flares blue, bright flames practically hurling themselves out of the openings and licking at their flesh. The feeling of pure, unadulterated, unbridled _rage_ pours down the tiny link, forcing Nihlus to sink to the ground with a whimper and Saren stagger from the emotion. The elder  _torin_ slams a hand to the wall to steady himself, snarling wildly. His biotics flare up, blue lashing out as the two of them struggle to control themselves.

     He clamps a hand over the mark, grinding his teeth together until they draw blood, and trying to meditate. When he removes his hand only moments later with a yelp, the skin is boiling to the touch and the palm of his hand is burned, flesh red and blistering. The mark is gleaming, rage simmering underneath the surface, just barely contained.

     The flames never really go away from the glowing eyes and mouth.


	3. Of Carmine Plates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nihlus has many marks, most of them he never meets.

     Out of all the soulmarks Nihlus has ever had, the glowing one with the grinning face and gleaming eyes is the one he remembers the most. It’s been with him the longest, always shifting across his hide and plates, but never actually leaving.

     Not like all of the other marks.

     Nihlus is born with marks, lots of them that scatter across dark hide. Most of them are gone by his first birthday. Several more shatter and vanish by his third. But the time his fifth birthday rolls around, Nihlus only has four left. His _mari’s_ , a bouquet of flowers made up of a Rhododendron, Bilberry, yellow Carnations, and Basil, resides on his left shoulder. She frowns every time she sees it and, no matter how many times he asks, never explains why.

     His _pari’s_ mark is a book situated high on a plate on his thigh, the pages neat and tidy and covered in hundreds of lines of words. It’s another tongue entirely, one that only his _pari_ seems to know, and Nihlus spends hours trying to read it, twisting his leg from side to side in an attempt to get a better look.

     The third mark is a pair of glowing, blue eyes that can only belong to a biotic, and they’re surrounded by a wreath of fringe. He wonders who it belongs to, and when he’ll meet them. What will they be like?

     Would they like him?

     It’s the fourth and final mark that he’s the most wary of. The glowing, bright eyes and the slanted, grinning mouth filled with sharp teeth that make him extremely nervous. It’s also the way the face always moves across his hide and plates, never staying in one place for too long. His _mari_ only saw it once and her scream had echoed through the house. After that, the face had remained out of view whenever she was around, almost like it knew why his _mari_ had reacted. Nihlus, no matter how thoughtful the action had seemed, is still scared of it.

     When Nihlus is ten, he finally understands why his _mari_ dislikes her mark. He finally understands when his _pari’s_ mark cracks, the pages tearing and ripping, the spine of the book cracking into pieces. Thin shreds of paper drift from his arm to the floor and he touches them, then bolts towards his parent’s room. His _mari_ stands above his _pari’s_ still body, a bloody dagger clenched in her hand.

     Fear and terror war inside of him, then a sense of calm comes over his mind, clouding out his own emotions, and the tiny Turian flees from the house. On his arm, the glowing face gleams in the night, flames curling around the edges.

     Down the street, not far from his place, lives a tiny, old Drell lady, and he knocks quietly, still locked in that world of calm. She lets him in with a laugh and he asks her, faintly, if she knows anything about flowers.

     “Of course,” she tells him with a smile and a cup of tea so hot that he burns his fingers picking it up, “I know what they say.”

     Nihlus thinks of the flowers on his back, inked into the plate there, and opens his mouth. “Rhododendron,” he says slowly, “wrapped up with Bilberry, yellow Carnations, and Basil. What do they mean?”

     The lady’s face goes blank. “Oh dear,” she sighs. “That’s quite a dark message. Wherever did you get _that_ combination from?”

     “What do they mean?” Nihlus repeats stubbornly.

     Another sigh, long and drawn out. “Rhododendron can be translated to ‘Danger’ or ‘Beware.’ Bilberry commonly means ‘Treachery’ and yellow Carnations are ‘Disdain.’ Basil, not the sweet variety mind you, means ‘Hatred.’”

     _Oh,_ Nihlus thinks, his heart leaping into his throat at the thought that his _mari’s_ soulmark was warning him about her. “I…” he says, frozen in his seat, horror thick in his chest.

     The Drell lady eyes him oddly. “Where did you learn that sort of bouquet from, little one?”

    “It’s my _mari’s_ mark,” he gasps, and then the whole story comes tumbling out. His confusion about her mark, her dislike of the mark, his _pari’s_ mark crumbling, him finding them in the bedroom, and then now. “It was warning me about her,” he whispers, breath coming out in shuddering gasps. “I don’t want to go back.”

     Her eyes narrow. “Well,” she says, shoving up her sleeves and picking up a frying pan just as the doorbell rings. “We’ll just see about _that_.”

**oOo**

     At the age of fifteen, Nihlus has had so many soulmarks appear, disappear, and crumble from his skin that he no longer pays attention to them. He stops trying to get to know people, already understanding that they’d just leave him again soon.

     He still doesn’t understand how these two marks; the grinning face and the biotic eyes, can stay so long. For a brief moment, he wonders when he’ll meet them, then shakes off the thought and goes back to killing mercenaries.

     When sixteen rolls around, the biotic eye mark glows with a burst of pure pride, but the grinning face gleams with hatred and the urge to shoot something. Nihlus spends hours at the range, nailing target after target in an attempt to keep himself from actually killing someone who is supposed to by an ally. That’s the first day he realizes that he can feel emotion through the marks.

     Meeting Spectre Arterius, however, is the best day of Nihlus’ nineteenth _year_ ; even if he does bluster his way through a bunch of mercenaries. He’s pinned against an overturned tank, outmanned and outgunned, when biotics glow bright and strong, hurling his opponents over the nearest cliff. Arterius touches down gracefully, silver armor somehow not reflecting in the sun.  "I suppose I should be thankful for help from a Spectre, much less Saren fucking Arterius," Nihlus mutters almost petulantly, "but I had that well in hand."

     Spectre Arterius eyes him carefully, his subvocals broadcasting the idea that Nihlus needs to get his head checked. “Uh-huh,” the _torin_ says flatly, “Of course you did.” He tugs off his gloves, rubs his hands together, and then crosses his arms. Nihlus’ eyes alight upon the pair of crossed daggers situated upon gray hide—his favorite ones, too—and he gasps.

     “Hey!” he cries, almost indignant, but also gleeful at the thought that a _Spectre_ has his mark. “That’s my mark!”

     Arterius glances down at his hand and narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Prove it,” he says, frostily as the northern wind. Nihlus winces, decides that the biotic eye one has to be the other, and quickly shows the _torin_ it. Almost immediately the other relaxes. “Yes,” Arterius says with a sigh, “those _are_ my Valluvian horns…” He trails off and then eyes Nihlus carefully, eyeballing him like he’s a piece of meat at a market.

     Nihlus is definitely uncomfortable. “I’m Nihlus,” he finally decides on, “Nihlus Kryik.”

     A single white-gray plate rises up. “The rankbanger?”

    “Ugh. I hate that name.”

    “If the shoe fits…” Arterius begins, cutting himself off with a grimace at the human expression. Nihlus snickers under his breath. He shakes his head, huffs a breath, and then looks the carmine-plated Turian over again. “I really _should_ take a student…”

     “Me? A Spectre?” Nihlus asks, knowing full well that he’s practically squeaking.

     Arterius’ face is evil, mandibles spreading in a dark grin. “You’ll have to pass my, ah, training first.” Never before has a word sounded so evil.

     “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Nihlus says, and means it. Arterius cackling all the way back to his ship does not help either.

**oOo**

     Two months later, Nihlus happens upon Saren without a shirt, and his brow-plates shoot upwards at the sight of the grinning face on a white-gray plate. “Hey!”

     Saren spins around, glaring dangerously. “Do you not know how to _knock?_ ”

     “I did,” Nihlus tells him smugly, “you just didn’t hear. Also, that face is one of the creepiest soulmarks I’ve ever seen. It unsettled my _pari_.”

     “You have this one as well?” Saren asks. In response, Nihlus rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the mark to the air. It had chosen to settle on the inside of his lower arm, resting comfortably on brown hide. The Spectre leans in to look at it. “Does yours move?”

     Nihlus pokes it, watching as the face scurries across his hide to the other side of his arm. “Yup. I wonder who it belongs to.” He pokes it again, snickering when it hides in his elbow, half-shimmying underneath a plate.

     Saren shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m also not sure if I even _want_ to know.”

     “True.” Nihlus huffs a breath and eyes the roof of Saren’s ship. “It’s honestly creepy,” he adds a minute later, just because he can, and is completely unprepared when flames roar out of the mark’s mouth. The sheer, unbridled _rage_ hits seconds later and he crumples to the ground, clutching at the mark and then yanking his hand away when it _burns_.

     Through bleary eyes, he can see Saren staggering, using the wall as support as he pours water over his mark. It hisses, boiling into steam and the Spectre collapses to the floor and groans in pain. Then the flames recede, lingering just underneath the hide.

    The eyes and mouth glow for hours, and the kindled flame behind the teeth never disappears. Nihlus has a burn mark on his hand that lasts for _days_.


	4. Of Red Hair and Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha Jane Shepard has marks she doesn't understand

     Natasha Jane Shepard is born with so many soulmarks that her skin is covered, many of them overlapping each other. But, as the years go by, the choices she makes change, and a good chunk of the marks quickly fade away. At the age of five, she walks right in the park, instead of left, and another mark disappears.

     There are some constants, though. Many marks remain throughout the years, never removing themselves from her skin. The one she remembers the most, the one that she can always recall being there, is the grinning spirit on her right shoulder. It looks like a jack-o-lantern, with its slanted eyes and jagged mouth filled to the brim with teeth. She recognizes the profiles of three separate Asari; knows that eventually she will meet them, and touches each shape where they are inked into her flesh.

     Further along her arm is a set of red eyes, a jagged set of claw marks that looks to be cutting one in two. For a moment, Natasha wonders what could do that sort of damage and then moves along, brushing a finger against a pair of eyes that can only belong to a Drell; complete with glowing biotics. _‘Who are they?’_ she asks herself.

     Nestled in the crook of her elbow are four yellow-orange eyes, hazy double pupils blinking lazily and occasionally glowing with green biotics. They don’t look like the eyes of a Batarian, not in the least, and she idly presses a hand against the mark. It flares green, glowing like a tiny firefly before flickering out. Natasha moves on to the red markings decorating her palm. They probably belong to a Turian; she knows that only that species tends to use the _Familia Notas_.

     On her ankle are speckles, overlapped with a syringe. _‘Who does that belong to? What are they like? Are they nice?’_

     Natasha pokes the next mark on her hip, eying the cybernetic, glowing biotic eyes that are surrounded by white fringe with interest. A Turian. This mark _has_ to belong to a Turian; she knows it. Beside it, almost as if the three marks are snuggling together, reside a pair of crossed daggers and the jack-o-lantern face. Further down, wrapping itself around her other ankle is a rifle with a scar on the handle. It’s well-worn, clearly loved, and she strokes it gently, wondering when she’ll meet who this one belongs to.

     Placed neatly on her left shoulder is a fanned out deck of cards, a royal flush her mother had told her. Beside it, dark against her pale skin, is a pair of lips and a beard that look like they match. Hiding in the small of her back is a single card; it’s the joker, decorated with a tiny border of ships that swim through stars.

     At the tender age of one, more marks appear. A gun, a glowing, gray, biotic eye on the handle. A dagger with some sort of lip mark painted onto the blade. A bright pink helmet.

     Her second year on Earth brings a mark that makes her mother gasp and cringe away. She later finds that it belongs to the pro-human, terrorist group named Cerberus; this mark is done in the blue of biotics. Natasha hides it, knowing better than to show it off.

     She’s four years old when the helmet of a Quarian appears, bright purple with some sort of shawl hanging over it. Two hours later, pride and hatred and anger surge through her, warring with her own emotions. Natasha trips, falls, and spends hours crying, unable to stop, not even after the feelings ebb away. Her own emotions are messed for days and she’s unable to react properly to things. Crying when it isn’t needed, and laughing at the worst times. Eventually, it fades until she’s able to do things again.    

     Seven years old brings hatred and rage and such unbridled fury that she stumbles over to the family’s pool and falls into the shallow side. The water around her boils with a hiss, stream escaping into the ear until the mark finally cools almost half an hour later. Her mother watches her quietly, worry etched onto her face. “Momma?” she asks, “what happened?”

     Her mother sighs. “Sometimes soulmarks can broadcast emotions. I’ve never seen something that severe before. It must have been an intense emotion.” Natasha blinks, nods, and settles back into the water, enjoying the cool sensation against burning skin.

     Eight rolls around with another mark; a large series of tattoos that cover her right hip. Natasha pretends they don’t exist when her mother threatens to have them laser-removed from her skin, carefully hiding them under long shirts and skirts and pants and anything she can get her hands on. Three months later, the glowing jack-o-lantern grins widely, practically vibrating underneath her skin with a sense of smugness that leaves her confused.

     She wonders, not for the first time, what the other ends of her marks are like, and when she will meet them. Natasha is getting very tired of waiting.

**oOo**

     Then, her wish is granted, and she meets Kaiden; the biotic gun with gray eyes, and Ashley; the pink helmet, and Jeff; the single card on her back. He insists on being called Joker. Natasha is all too happy to oblige. She also finds out what her mark is, and can’t help but laugh. A ship, one of her own, called the _Normandy_.

     Whenever it’s docked in the area, she always sneaks over to stare at it, wondering when it will be hers.


	5. Of Gray, Biotic Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan somehow makes friends with a soulmark, despite never meeting them

     Kaidan is born with many soulmarks. One of them, the jack-o-lantern face, seems to know about his fear of the dark and serves as his nightlight for many years. He never questions just how it _does_ know, just that it does, and takes comfort in the soft glow that chases away the shadows. The others he’s aware of, but in the light of the relay incident, they always seemed to stay just outside of his line of sight.

     He can see them there, hovering just outside of his vision, and he can only catch glimpses of them in mirrors; flickers of color and lines before they’re disappearing. The jack-o-lantern one; sometimes, if he stares too long, simply fades out of view. He knows it’s still there, can feel the faintest brush of the lines as they skip across his skin, but he can’t _see_ it.

     In fact, Kaidan’s able to figure out which ones belong to alien races as they suddenly stop being in plain sight. Even the four-eyed one, with the hazy, almost glassy yellow irises and double pupils starts skittering away from his sight, hiding in the crook of his elbow, then the back of his knee, and then up onto his neck. Some of the marks vanish into his hair, sliding around the shell of his ear and slipping inside of his mouth. It’s a very odd feeling.

     Three separate Asari, at least three, maybe four Turians, multiple humans, a Drell, a Quarian with a purple helmet, and whoever the double-pupiled eyes belong to. Whatever they are, they are definitely _not_ a Batarian.

     Many of the marks reveal that the other end is biotic. Some reveal their choice in job, oh so far down the line.

     Slowly, carefully, with the help of his mother, a camera, and some trickery, Kaidan manages to finally, _finally_ , capture every single mark. The profile of three separate Asari; one with purple speckles, one with almost greenish-gray markings, and one ones that border on purple, two rings above the eyes and a painted line across the lips. There are three known Turian; a glowing biotic eye with gray fringe surrounding it, a pair of crossed daggers with white _Familia Notas_ , and a set of red _Familia Notas._

     Kaidan is fairly certain that the jack-o-lantern face also belongs to a Turian. The mouth seems about right, what with its enormous set of teeth. He knows that the red eyes with the scar belongs to a Krogan and that the speckled syringe probably goes with a Salarian. Beside it are the dark eyes that can only belong to a Drell, complete with biotics.

     The four, double pupils eyes that seem so sluggish, almost drugged, are the ones that he can’t identify. Their positioning is wrong for a Batarian. In fact, the only thing that matches them are the Protheans. But that race is dead and gone, long since wiped off the face of the universe for some mysterious reason.

     But the eyes seem almost drugged, a hazy, glazed look that only comes when one’s slept for too long. Could there be surviving Prothean left? Is he going to _meet_ one? That…that would be too good to be true.

    Below, not even bothering to hide in the least, is a rifle with a massive scar over the butt of the handle. Human, most likely, as it doesn’t seem bothered. Every other alien-like mark had vanished after the incident, and Kaiden is positive that the mark belongs to a mortal. Same with the tattoos that cover his side, and the Cerberus mark, and the cards; both decks, along with the dark lips, the dagger, the pink helmet, and the ship.

     It’s fascinating, actually, to press a hand up against the mark, for the emotions on the other end come through so much stronger. So much so, that Kaiden wars between pride and hate at the age of three, swept of in the feeling of “ _I did it!”_ and “ _You’re too young!”_ , anger and glee that churns in his gut. 

     Then, at the age of six, burning hatred and anger and unbridled _rage_ the likes he’s never felt or experienced before, burns through him and Kaidan shrieks in pain and immediately stumbles for the shower. He nearly shatters the knob with his biotics in an attempt to get it started and then spends almost two hours under the icy water, cringing every time he brushes against the jack-o-lantern mark. ‘ _What?’_ he wonders, ‘ _What could have brought this on?’_ because it’s not petty hatred, but _directed_ hatred. Someone caused this.

     At the age of eight, he laughs, gleeful, when the feeling of utter smugness comes through the link with the jack-o-lantern mark. Whoever at the other end has won, whether it be a verbal fight or a physical one; they won, sending their opponent off with their tail between their legs. It’s glorious and he relishes in the feeling.

**oOo**

     And then school starts and Kaidan stares down at one of his tests with a sense of horror. Their teacher hates them, his class specifically, and this test is nothing that she taught them. He pokes a question, wonders if he could just bullshit the whole thing, because it’s not like he’s going to be able to know when the human race first discovered the Prothean ruin on Mars. He idly pokes his pencil against the answers one by one, pausing only when the jack-o-lantern mark winks at him when he touches “B) 2148”. He stares at the paper again, taps the answer once more, and feels the mark wink at him.

     His soulmark is helping him _cheat_. But then again, considering the fact that their bitch of a teacher is trying to purposely fail them, Kaidan really can’t feel bad. He circles “B) 2148” and tries to keep from grinning. Most of the next questions he knows the answers to, if only because he’s a book nerd and enjoys reading his father’s texts, but another one pops up that he doesn’t know.

     It’s the name of the first, permanent settlement on Mars, along with the date that it was founded on. _‘Lowell City in 2103’_ the jack-o-lantern mark tells him, winking again when he touches the correct combination.

     Kaidan grins widely, hiding it with the sleeve of his hand, and turns in the test. The sour look on his teacher’s face is definitely worth the trouble.

     Victory is _glorious_.


	6. Of Four, Yellow, Double-pupiled Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javik goes under with no soulmarks, and wakes up to many

     When Javik goes into stasis, desperately praying that his people will survive, he checks his flesh. To his eternal despair, he’s now markless. Every single soulmark he had once had, from his parents to a childhood sweetheart are gone; their lives taken by the Reapers. He is alone; he’d go to sleep alone, and he’d wake up alone.

     That dreadful thought is on his mind when he slips under, drifting away to the AI’s last remarks that he will be the only Prothean to survive their cycle. Inside his chest, his hearts shift, pulse, and crack just a little; thin tears trail down his cheeks, freezing to his skin as his mind and body shuts down.

**oOo**

     Fifty thousand years means a lot changes. When Javik comes out of stasis to three blurry forms hovering over him, he doesn’t think, just reacts. Green biotics flare up and he lashes out, sending them skidding away. Panic blurs his mind and he stumbles out of the pod, scrambling to get some distance between them. Someone, probably the Asari, says something, but it’s hazy to his mind, meaningless syllables strung together that he can’t understand. The other two seem to understand though, as they back away from him.

     Javik crumples to his knees, lungs heaving and hearts thumping wildly in his chest, and stares out over the green wilds, curling up and around and through the remains of his people’s home. _“What is this?”_ he breathes quietly, flinching minutely when a hand comes down upon his shoulder. Part of his flesh burns at the contact and he snarls, but their mind-meld is an accidental, completely necessary evil. In the split second their skin is touching, he instantly knows almost everything that the female does.

     “Be careful around him,” the Asari hisses. “To us, it’s been fifty thousand years. To him, it’s only been—”

     “Minutes,” Javik says, flatly, cutting the _nais_ off. “It’s only been minutes.” He rolls the words around in his mouth, tasting them as they form. The language is different from his own, more sharp, less precise. Protheans speak more musically, using tones and pitches to form what they do not have words for. Mortal tongue is more controlled, enunciating everything so that nothing can be misunderstood.

     It’s different, yet similar enough that Javik can see the beauty of it. He turns and, for the first time, takes a look at the three who have released him from his stasis-pod. A human female, obviously the leader, with red hair and green eyes. Her skin is cracked in places, red lines peeking through. Beside her is an Asari, purple speckles framing their face. They look extremely excited, practically vibrating in place beside their leader. On the human’s left is a Turian, one side of his face heavily scarred. “Human,” he begins carefully, sliding the language out of his vocal cords and through pale lips, “Asari. Turian.”

     For a moment, just a moment, he pauses, and then sighs out, “I’m surrounded by Primitives,” before muttering, _“Fantastic,”_ in his own tongue and underneath his breath.

     The Human gives him a flat look. _“Play nice, Prothean,”_ she says, and Javik _reels_ at the thought that she can understand him. Then he realizes that he will _never_ be able to have a private rant to himself ever again and tries to not groan. He’s going to have to be _very_ careful with what he says.

     “A real, _live_ Prothean,” the Asari breathes out reverently, clasping their hands together with glee as they eyeball Javik like he’s a fine animal at the market.

     Beside the _nais_ , the Turian rolls his eyes upwards, clearly praying for patience. “Take a picture,” he mutters under his breath, hoisting his sniper rifle up over a shoulder, “it lasts longer,” and ignores the glare both the Asari and the Human give him.

     Javik decides that he rather likes this Turian’s sense of humor. How long that will last, however, even he doesn’t know.

     “We need to go,” the Human snaps, glaring furiously at the white flying ship that’s heading their way. “Now.”

     “Are you fighting Reapers?” Javik asks.

     “Yes,” she says.

     “Then I will go with you.”

     He does.

**oOo**

     It’s only when he’s alone, locked away in a room that Commander Shepard has given him, that he takes a deep breath, strips, and looks in the mirror. His hearts twist in his chest, beating slightly erratically at the sight of the soulmarks that litter his skin. New ones. Javik eyes them critically, already knowing that most of them are probably crew members. The ship, _Normandy_ it’s labeled, is most likely Shepard. Other human marks caress his flesh; Joker the single card, James the deck of cards, Jacob the lips and beard, Miranda the Cerberus symbol, Jack the tattoos, Kaidan the gun, Kasumi the dagger, Zaeed the scarred rifle, and Ashley the pink helmet.

     The avian-meatbag—‘It’s Garrus, dammit,’ the other had told him flatly, ‘and if you don’t start calling me that, I’m going to hang you from the roof of the cargo bay by your own intestines,’—is the jack-o-lantern mark on his shoulder. The right half of the mark is heavily scarred, exactly like the Turian’s own face. A flame glows deep within the mouth; not biotic, but something else. Nestled beside it are two other marks; two crossed daggers with white paint, and two glowing, biotic eyes surrounded by horns. ‘Saren and Nihlus,’ Garrus tells him when he later asks, something sad flickering over a scarred face. ‘They’re alive, but in comas. All we can do is wait for them to wake up.’

     Javik hadn’t asked _why_ they were in comas, seeming to understand that some things just weren’t his own business.

     Three of the marks belong to Asari, one of which is the _nais_ present for his revival. Liara, their name is. Interesting being, he just wishes they’d stop asking him such enthusiastic questions. He doesn’t _want_ to talk about his people, not when their deaths are still fresh in his mind. So he answers vaguely, bluntly, purposely riling the other up in an attempt to be left alone. It works, for the most part. He still doesn’t know who the other two Asari marks belong to.

     Red markings belong to another Turian, Shepard says her name is Nyreen, and the syringe belongs to Mordin the Salarian scientist. Tali’Zorah is the purple helmet and EDI is the holographic eye that covers his thigh. Wrex is the red eyes with the scar and to Grunt belongs the blue Krogan eyes with the scalpel. ‘A creation,’ Shepard had told him, her voice soft. ‘He was created, not born.’  

     Legion has a single, glowing eye that occasionally blinks. A Geth that decided Shepard was the better ideal to follow. Javik still doesn’t know what to think of it, him, her; he doesn’t know, and so avoids the thing in an attempt to not deal with the frustration.

     Thane belongs to the big, dark eyes; a Drell assassin that is still recovering from an emergency lung transplant. He’s apparently suffered from Kepral’s Syndrome, where the victim’s lungs stop being able to take in oxygen, effectively drowning them in their own fluids. A messy way to go, but still a relatively easy fix as a lung transplant often takes care of the problem completely.

     Still, Javik is intrigued by the assassin. He is dangerous, lightning fast, and a skilled fighter. The way the Drell’s body moves as he fights is mesmerizing, a dance that pulls one in the longer they watch; capturing the mind and ensnaring the body.

     Javik watches and is pulled in; heat flares low in his belly, and he finds he really doesn’t mind at all.


	7. Of Speckled Purple Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liara is born with four marks. They're certain one is that of a Prothean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely refuse to use she/her with Asari. Nope. Sorry. Not going to happen. Ever.

     Liara T’Soni comes into existence in the middle of winter with exactly four soulmarks on their skin. Two belong to other Asari and it takes their mother exactly two weeks to figure out who they are. One is Samara, a rather well known Justicar, and the other belongs to Aria, the queen of Omega. The other mark is a set of four eyes, yellow with duel pupils in each iris; but they’re usually closed, almost as if the owner is sleeping. The final mark belongs to a Drell, dark eyes glowing slightly with biotics. Sometimes, when Liara isn’t buried in research about the Prothean race, they wonder why they don’t have a mark for their mother. They never really do find out.

     When Liara is fifty four years old, blood red markings with a pale syringe appears on their skin, wrapping itself around their right wrist. They poke the mark curiously, eyeing the way the plunger in the syringe bobs up and down, before wriggling around and disappearing over their shoulder and down onto the small of their back. The mark doesn’t show its face for hours and when it does, Liara pokes it again, laughing as the mark slithers away from their fingers.

     At the age of fifty eight, blood red markings belonging to a Turian appear, and Liara’s mother sneers at the soulmark. Liara, furious and hurt and emotions that they don’t understand, throws themself back into their work, furiously studying the Prothean race in an attempt to learn something that they hadn’t already found, if only to forget the hurt in their chest.

     Amusingly enough, three years later Liara gains another soulmark. This one unsettles them though, and the mark seems to know it, as it usually stays out of their sight, only coming into view when Liara specifically asks for it. It’s a grinning fanged mouth with slanted eyes, and it leaves the Asari curious about who is on the other side. ‘It’s a jack-o-lantern,’ a Human had once told them when they had asked and Liara honestly hadn’t understood until the mortal had pulled up a picture of a grinning pumpkin, lit from the inside with a candle.

     They glance at the four-eyed mark. The lids rarely open, occasionally revealing the bright yellow iris, and Liara wonders what happened to the owner. It looks like the poor being has been asleep for years. In fact, Liara can count on one hand the number of times the eyes have been open for a minute or longer. Are they in a coma? Something similar maybe? It doesn’t help that the eyes are the exact same ones that Protheans tend to have. It gives Liara jitterbugs in their stomach; to think that they might actually meet a real, live Prothean.

     Liara has a three foot long list of all the questions they’re going to ask if the four-eyed mark really does belong to a Prothean. They’re not quite sure what they’ll do if it doesn’t belong; aside from being extremely disappointed, that is.

     The Asrai huffs a breath and pokes the biotic eyes surrounded by gray fringe that had appeared a year and three months later. A Turian, this mark is, and it seems to like to snuggle against the jack-o-lantern one, for Liara can often find them nestled together in the crook of their elbow. It’s a cute sight, really, and the _nais_ often finds themselves laughing softly and covering a smile.

     Three years after that and a pair of crossed daggers with white _Familia Notas_ show up, and Liara is slightly surprised when it immediately joins the other two in the crook of the Asari’s knee. After that, all three marks tend to migrate together, never straying far from each other. It’s then that they notice the Drell’s mark always seems to stay in view of the maybe-Prothean mark, almost like it’s stalking the other. It’d be cute if the implications weren’t so disturbing; the feeling doubles when Liara discovers that the Drell mark belongs to Thane Krios himself.

     Almost a three years passes after that, with not a single mark appearing. For a while, Liara studies their skin, quietly wondering if that was it. Then, on a morning that’s suspiciously cloudy, a rifle with a scarred handle appears on their blue skin, wrapping itself around the _nais_ ’ waist from one side to the other, the handle just barely brushing against the end of the barrel.

     Six years after that, two marks appear in rather quick succession. The first is a deck of cards fanned out into what seems to be a Royal Flush and the mark claims a place low on the Asari’s hip. Two months later, a pair of dark lips with a beard forms, taking up position on the back of an ankle. They try to poke the lips, only to yank their finger back quickly when the mark tries, and nearly succeeds, in biting the digit clean off.

     At the age of seventy seven, a large ship forms on their back, it’s name, the _Normandy_ , written across a wing in stylized cursive. Liara happily traces the letters whenever the ship ventures into view on their skin, getting lost in the soothing motions.

     The ship always seems to appear whenever Liara needs it; almost like it seems to know.

     A year after that, a gun with a gray, biotic eye appears, followed shortly after by a dagger with a lip print. Just after that, once the new year has begun, a mark of Cerberus in blue biotics forms on the _nais_ ’ calf. Liara pauses, looks at the marks, and then immediately goes back to count the number of marks that are biotic. Eight. They have eight biotic marks out of seventeen marks total.

     That…that’s a lot, really, especially seeing as Liara might end up being friends with them.

     Two years pass by and then one more mark appears. A Quarian helmet in bright purple, a shawl gracefully hanging over the edges. So far, Liara has met none of their soulmarks.

     None.

     They wonder how long they’ll have to wait before they meet them.

**oOo**

     Admittedly, the tattoos were kind of a surprise. Not a bad surprise, no, but a surprise none the less. The rather large mark coats Liara’s right thigh from their hip down to their knee, curling around the inside and outside in what a Human might call a ‘sleeve’, the marks glowing occasionally with biotics.

     Nine biotics. Two of them are Asari. Liara is rather pleasantly surprised, and spends quite a bit of time examining them carefully.

     That is, when they’re not buried in their research about the Protheans.


	8. Of Green, Scaled Skin and Smooth Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thane is born markless. It haunts him for years

     For many, many years, he is markless, not even carrying the soulmarks of his own parents. It’s part of the reason why he was sold to the Hanar at the age of six, aside from the Compact, and he knows that fact well, no matter how hard his parents try to hide it. And he remains markless for years afterwards, seeing no particular reason why he should reach out and try to befriend someone.

     At the age of twelve, still so young, he takes his first life. It’s a human, yet it’s clumsy, the attack, and as he stands over the cooling body, he resolves to get better. As the young Drell escapes onto the rooftops, he quietly thanks Arashu for their grace, and hopes that he’ll never have to call on the goddess again.

     The first tattoo Thane gains is a surprise, for it comes in randomly one evening, and he watches with wide eyes as the mark fills itself in. It belongs to another Drell, beautiful and strong, with sunset colored eyes. He traces it carefully, feels the soft warmth that flutters on the other end, and smiles for the first time in a long time. He still hides it from his handlers, though, unsure as to what they would think.

     He’s been favored for a long time by them, simply because he _didn’t_ have a mark. No one to distract him. Ever.

     That’s not the case now, and Thane wishes to keep whoever’s on the other end safe.

**oOo**

     Then, one evening when he’s in the middle of a job, his targeting laser aimed at the unsuspecting Salarian’s head, a young, female Drell with eyes like sunsets throws herself into the line of sight, barking at the older man behind her to run. Thane pauses, his finger a hair away from pulling the trigger, and stares with wide eyes. Underneath his gloves, the mark on the back of his palm _burns_ , and he stifles a hiss of pain and backs away. His mind is stuck, confused beyond belief. How could anyone be so selfless? Who would be so kind that they would give their life for a stranger?

     Thane doesn’t know. He’s never met anyone like that female Drell before. And now his curiosity is peaked.

     Irikah is her name, and he finds that out after saving her from a bunch of thugs. It also turns out that she’s not a helpless damsel, and Thane goggles a little as he watches her brain one of the attackers against the wall, not even wincing as blood splatters against her face. _Wow_ , he thinks, and wonders if this is what love feels like.

     She eyes him warily the moment they are the only ones left in the room and Thane stands up straight, shifts out of a defensive position, and bows politely to her. “Good morning,” he says quietly.

     “Good morning yourself,” she returns.

     Thane hopes the rest of the meeting goes well.

**oOo**

     He marries her. Thane doesn’t know how he does it, but he somehow convinces Irikah to marry him. They have a son together. Kolyat is the little one’s name, and Thane is _delighted_ to see that the child has two marks on him. Irikah’s, with her sunset colored eyes, and one other. It’s his own eyes, glowing just slightly with biotics.

     _Good_ , he thinks, pleased by the fact that he can love someone enough to give them his mark.

     But things change, and Thane knows that well. He knows that he always seems to lose things, even when they aren’t his in the first place. Irikah is in danger just by being with him, and no matter how he pleads, she always says that they’ll be fine.

     When he returns one evening after a job to find his son screaming and his wife in a puddle of her own blood, Thane wars between fury and the distant feeling that he’d been right all along. With a snarl that probably wouldn’t seem out of place on a pissy Turian, he scoops up his son and races out of the house, vowing that he’d hunt down and kill every single person responsible for this.

     It is his vow, and he will give his life to see it done, never mind the fact that he has a ten year old son, nor the fact that he’s slowly dying from Kepral’s Syndrome.

     Some vows are the darkest of all.

**oOo**

     Two days after Thane takes the hit on Nassana Dantius, soulmarks begin appearing across his body, and he doesn’t notice until stepping out of a shower one evening. Each mark is striking in their own way, but several stand out to his sharp mind. The three marks almost snuggling together in the crook of his elbow; crossed daggers, biotic eyes wreathed in fringe, and a glowing jack-o-lantern face. There’s a ship sailing through the stars on his back, _Normandy_ written across her wings. On the palm of his hand, lids mostly closed and eyes glassy and blank with sleep, are four eyes, bright yellow with double pupils. They’re fascinating, nothing like anything Thane’s ever seen before and he studies them carefully.

     It feels good to poke the marks, a small smile crossing his lips as each one wriggles away from his fingers. Both the jack-o-lantern mark and the lips with the beard try and bite him and he yanks his fingers away with ease, amusement rumbling in his chest. They grow trickier, learning his movements, and the jack-o-lantern one actually manages to sink its inky teeth into his flesh one day, flames curling out of its mouth and licking at his flesh. Thane curses softly and yanks his finger away, curiously inspecting the sluggishly bleeding teeth marks and slightly burned flesh.

     For once, Thane isn’t feeling as ill as he is.

     Then he actually meets Shepard, the ship _Normandy_ across his back, and barely manages to keep himself from laughing. It’s amazing, the thought that all of his soulmarks appeared because he chose to take on the job of assassinating Nassana Dantius.

     It’s also a little sobering, that thought. If he hadn’t taken the job, he’d still be alone and markless.


	9. Of Daggers and Dark Lip Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kasumi does not care about soulmarks, then she does.

     Kasumi has very few marks, but she doesn’t care. There is no need for such trivial things. It's much better to focus on the present, and not what gifts the universe seems to be dangling in front of her face. 'Look,' it seems to be saying, 'look what we'll give you if you just play along.' _No,_ she thinks as she squirrels away priceless gems, pilfering them right under the noses of fools, _I'm happy as I am._

     Then Keiji Okuda appears in her life and the soulmark of a bird appears on her arm; just as brightly colored as all the others.

     She's vaguely insulted that the universe thinks she'll go for it, like a horse would for a carrot. Then, naturally, because Keiji's a smooth bastard able to charm a chicken out of its eggs, she lunges for the carrot with such ferocity, that the universe isn't able to yank it back in time. Kasumi laughs, gleeful at the thought that she went up against the universe and won, and immediately begins planning a heist with her new lover.

     Keiji's a skilled thief as well, which is part of the reason why she's so attracted to him in the first place, and it helps that he's ruthless packed within a sugar-sweet skin. Except with her, that is, and she enjoys their whirlwind romance very, very much. And, now that he's in her life, Kasumi actually sits down and takes the time to look all the other soulmarks on her skin over. Most she's never seen before, but seeing as she spent years avoiding mirrors, the thief really isn't surprised that there are marks she doesn't know.

     They're interesting, though, the new ones. Keiji sits beside her, describes the marks that she can't see, and Kasumi cracks up at several of them. Together they spend several hours analyzing each mark and coming up with ideas of who belongs on the other end.

     The ship? The _Normandy_ is its name, and Kasumi laughs. “A star-lover, military to the bone,” she says at last. “They've probably seen the entire universe. What would they want with me?”

     “Male or female?” Keiji returns, ignoring the other questions. “Human, or something else?”

     Kasumi eyes the mark on her thigh, strokes it gently, and says, “Human female,” slowly, but surely. “I feel like the other end's a Human female.”

     “All right,” Keiji says with a nod, marking the statement down onto paper. “We know that your mark is a dagger with your lip mark. What about the three that seem to be snuggling? The dagger one?”

     “Those are Turian markings,” Kasumi says after a moment of studying the three marks in the crook of her elbow. “Most likely a Turian male. Same with the biotic one with the fringe. That one's really familiar, too.”

     Keiji leans in to give the mark a closer look. “That fringe is awfully familiar, too. Sorta like horns almost.”

     “You think it belongs to Saren Arterius?”

     Her lover shrugs. “Could be. That jack-o-lantern mark is creepy though.”

     “It is one of the odder marks I've seen,” she agrees, casually poking it and then yelping when it tries to take a finger off. “Hey! Watch it!” Kasumi hisses slightly in pain, gingerly rubbing the finger that now has teeth marks in it.

     “They can do _that_?” Keiji asks, eyeing the marks scattered across her body with trepidation. “I didn't know those things could do _that_.”

     “They aren't supposed to,” she mutters and gets up to bandage the small wounds. Keiji follows her, laughing the entire way.

     “Looks like they know what you’re doing. Must mean that the beings those marks belong to are older than you.” She pauses, stares at him, and then sighs.

     “I suppose it does,” Kasumi says slowly, almost like she’s never thought of it that way before. There are many marks belonging to humans and she runs a finger over each one, taking note of the way the marks react before moving on. The biotic gun glows viciously, looking almost like it wants to fire. Amusingly enough, the rifle with the scarred handle’s trigger actually pulls itself, a puff of smoke exiting from the barrel of the gun. There is no bullet, thankfully, and the thief pokes the pink helmet.

     It snaps at her, the visor raising and lower in the same second, attempting to take her finger off. Forewarned, and now more wary due to the jack-o-lantern mark’s mauling of her fingers, Kasumi yanks her hand away and goes back to wrapping her mangled finger. Behind her, Keiji snickers at her overdramatic sniff and covers his mouth when she narrows her eyes playfully at him.

     In the bathroom mirror, she can see the closed pupils of the four yellow eyes. Almost as if they sense her staring at them, the lids slide open just enough for her to see at there are two pupils in each eye. The mark blinks lethargically at her, and she blinks back, feeling bad for whoever’s on the other side.

     It’s not fun being drugged up to the gills, metaphorical or not. She knows that one from experience.

     Hiding alongside the four-eyed mark, is a big set of black Drell eyes. Very familiar Drell eyes, seeing as Kasumi ran into Thane fucking Krios last week. “Son of a bitch,” she breathes, and touches the mark gently. It screws its eyes shut, and she can see the scales around the lids shimmer in annoyance as color flushes through them.

     Keiji eyes the mark, now worried. “Who’s that mark belong to?”

     “Thane Krios,” she returns weakly, not getting the usual sort of enjoyment out of watching her lover blanch.

    “That does it, we’re moving planet.”

     Kasumi laughs. “I’ll run into him eventually. Moving planet isn’t going to change much, Keiji.”

     He sighs. “I know. I just want you to be safe.” Keiji pauses just slightly, breathes in, and then looks Kasumi in the eye. “Little bird… I don’t think we should steal from Donovan Hock anymore. Something about the job feels off.”

     She waves a hand at him. “Nonsense, Keiji. We’ll be fine.”

     They aren’t fine and Keiji dies in a sea of blood. Her mark for him; a white bird with his beard as black feathers, shatters, a fine scattering of feathers coating the ground.

 


	10. Of Curly Hair and Cerberus Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda has many marks for people she remembers. She's not going to let her second chance go to waste.

     Miranda does not see the point in soulmarks, nor does she understand their appeal. They’re merely people who will get in her way, obstacles that she must overcome. The Illusive Man was clear in that regard. She still eyes the marks on her arm with guarded curiosity though, looking at them with a shrewd gaze. It’s clear that she will travel with many people, with people she may even consider friends. Again, she means, knowing full well that this is her second time.

     It’s ridiculous, but deep in her heart, she hopes that they’ll accept her for herself, and not her ability to kill in the field. So often she has to prove herself, for she’s young and beautiful and people almost never take her seriously until she ends something’s life, and Miranda wonders if she’ll ever find a place she can call home.

     The Illusive Man thinks she’s being stupid and sentimental. Out loud, she agrees, but deep in her heart, she barely resists the urge to knife the bastard right in the groin. Quite often she entertains the thought of biotically throwing him through the nearest window. Possibly, if she’s feeling vindictive enough, she might garrote him with his own intestines.

     It didn’t used to be this way; once, long ago, she was a good soldier, following him because he gave her a chance when so many others just walked by, ignoring her as they passed. And she had _burned_ with anger, vowing quietly that she would have her revenge. Then, with the faintest tickle, a pair of biotic eyes had formed on her arm.

     Three days later, she meets The Illusive Man for the first time and is brought into Cerberus.

     Then she’s experimented on, her body made stronger and stronger, her biotics growing in leaps and bounds. She’s thankful, all up to the point when she overhears him talking to another about removing her soulmarks with lasers. ‘Stupid and sentimental,’ he says snidely. ‘She’s a fool to follow me.’

     ‘Then we are all fools,’ the doctor returns flatly.

     Miranda fumes quietly, barely resisting the urge to storm over and deck the both of them. Instead, she turns, whirls around in a swirl of curled hair, and heads for her room, where, once inside, she locks the door, strips, and stands in front of a mirror.

     She’s just in time to watch The Illusive Man’s soulmark shatter into tiny bits and pieces, and a feeling of vindictive glee rushes through her.

     Then, with a steadying breath, she turns back to the mirror and looks herself over, eyeing each mark where it sits upon her skin. A good chunk of them belong to alien races, and, where she would once feel revulsion, now only curiosity flows through her. She recognizes many of them, too. Saren Arterius, the biotic eye surrounded by Valluvian horn fringe. Nihlus Kryik with his crossed, white _Familia Notas_ marked daggers. Ashley Williams with her pink helmet.

     That last one is a rather amusing thought. Miranda never really had understood Ashley’s armor choices. Bright pink is not something that _she_ would wear to fight in. But then again, she once wore a solid white, skin-tight suit that showed a good chunk of her cleavage, so she really can’t say anything.

     Kasumi is obviously the dagger with her lip mark on it. Kaidan is the biotic gun with the gray eyes. She remembers him well. Last time he hadn’t made it off of Vimire, dying inside of the facility in their desperate attempt to stop Saren. Shepard never really did forgive herself for his death. They might not have been together, but they were still close friends.

     Hopefully, maybe, she’ll as close a friend to Shepard as Kaidan once was. Maybe this time they’ll all survive.

     Jack is a series of tattoos that sleeve themselves across her own arm. They’re gorgeous, and suddenly Miranda can see why the biotic got them in the first place. Without the annoying, childish biotic around, she can really appreciate the beauty in the work. Miranda huffs a laugh at the thought, then pauses, remembering that Jack was once an experiment. Will she become one again? Hopefully not. This time, Miranda might actually be able to do something about it.

     Tali, such a sweet girl, is a purple Quarian helmet on her hip, the top of it covered by her familiar shawl. The thing changes every day, and Miranda guesses that it’s changing to match what Tali’s actually wearing. It’s fascinating, actually, and she’s slowly learning just how connected and intricate the marks actually are.

     Zaeed seems to be a shotgun, one that has a scar across the handle. Miranda hadn’t really liked him last time. He was too loud and gruff. But now she finds that she misses his bluntness; she’d quickly grown tired of The Illusive Man’s vagaries, the way he always seems to skip around the truth just to seem mysterious.

      Then there are the three separate Asari on her skin, one on her thigh, one on her ankle, and one in the crook of her elbow. Liara is one, the familiar blue skin and purple speckles easy to pick out. The other is Samara and the third seems to be Aria. Beside Aria is a set of red _Familia Notas_ , possibly Nyreen _._ How entertaining.

     Mordin himself is a series of red splatters across her lower back, a syringe settled neatly in the mess. Miranda is honestly not surprised by his mark; he’s practically married to Science.

     She sighs and reaches down to touch the mark on her stomach. Jacob, with his smiling lips and beard. He’s really, really her type and Miranda’s kind of regretting not seeing that last time. Not anymore though, this time she’ll get him.

     Javik must be the four eyes, and Miranda still reels at the thought of a live Prothean, but she still feels bad for him. He’s been out for fifty thousand years, and recovering from such a sleep is long and difficult. His eyes are closed, drugged from stasis, and she sends comfort down the link whenever she can, if only to make it a little easier on him. Then she notices Thane’s mark—a pair of Drell eyes glowing lazily with biotics—seems to be following Javik’s own in a way that can only be called stalkerish. “Oh my God,” she breathes and cracks up laughing. When she finally catches her breath, she moves on, still snickering under her breath.

     James Vega is a deck of cards, and she laughs at that. He always was a shitty player, but never seemed to learn from his mistakes, making him easy prey for the more seasoned card-sharks on board the _Normandy_.

     The _Normandy_. Shepard. Miranda breathes in slowly and giggles a little. Shepard is one hell of a lady and she’s definitely looking forward to being back under the Commander’s command. Saving the world, again, is going to be one hell of an adventure.

     Miranda breathes in slowly and dresses herself again, already making plans in the back of her mind. If The Illusive Man wants a pretty toy, then she’ll play a pretty toy, and then stab him in the back when he least expects it.

     Miranda is, after all, an actor. She’s damn good at her job, too, if she may brag a little. He’ll never see it coming, up until the point the blade is buried into his spine. Her smile widens, just a touch, until it’s little more than _teeth_.

     This is going to be _fun_.


	11. Of Geth and Robots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legion sort of remembers. It's vaguely fuzzy

     Legion does not have soulmarks. Instead, he has imprints; pictures, vague sensations of déjà vu, and a blurry understanding of the past that only grows clearer the longer he exists. And no matter how many humans he exterminates, he’s always on the lookout for the redheaded *NameUnknown* and her N-7 armor.

     He still doesn’t remember their names, nor does he recall how and when they’ll meet.

     But he knows that they will eventually, for, even if it’s not written on his skin in inks like the others, it’s bound and seared into his code, and he knows that, eventually, it will happen.

     Legion’s definitely looking forward to the events.

     With a huff, a human action that he can mimic perfectly, Legion examines his code, eyeing each line as it passes by.

     _A ship in the stairs, a woman with red hair. So strong, so powerful. Commanding all she meets, able to charm even the white one into death, she is the hope of the galaxy. She stands at the helm, barking out orders, yet still so soft and gentle with those she loves. A warrior to the bones, determined to save everyone at the cost of her own life. Her duty is to die. Her choice is to live. The Normandy sails on._

     _A sniper rifle--Viper, once, long ago--long since lost to the stars. The Black Widow has taken her place, resting in the hands of the scarred one. Both in body and in heart; he has lost so much, but still has the capacity to love. Revenge is always the most difficult thing to forgive, yet somehow he manages on the wings of an Archangel. The jack-o-lantern grins widely, smiling even in the darkness, lit from within._

_A dagger and a graybox, hidden within a stealth cloaking device. An enigmatic thief, sly as a fox and quiet as a mouse, she is the silent end. A single line painted over smirking lips is often the last thing one sees before their life is ended. ‘Little Bird,’ she once was known as, but now the need to retrieve something has taken over her mind. Quiet as the night, she descends, swipes, and is gone before one even realizes her existence. Quick as a wink, she is there and then gone._

     _A sickness of the lungs, so breathtaking, so life-stealing, and he is burdened with it. Normally dark skin pale in death, she cries over his form. They were not lovers, no, for he belonged to someone else, but they considered each other siblings. ‘Sniper buddies,’ she had once said, laughing softly as she, the scarred one, the ill one, and himself compete for the most kills. He is silent, a deadly dance that ends lives before they begin. So graceful, so quiet, and so still in death._

     _A biotic with gray eyes, so strong, and yet so anguished. A brave man, willing to follow the Commander to the end. Yet a choice had been made, and he hadn’t been able to make it out of Vimire alive. *NameUnknown* never forgave herself for his death._

     _A woman with the bite of a widow, so sharp and so strong. A biotic, with curled hair and an intellect that could challenge even the best of the best. Yet she uses it for wrong, trapped within the clutches of The-One-Who-Is-Not. So strong, so impassioned, bright and shining like a star, only to be snuffed out too soon. Betrayed and lost, she fell to an end that never was._

     _A tattooed biotic, a violent temper simmering under scarred skin. An experiment that never wanted to be one in the first place, pain and anger and “whydidyoudothistome?” hiding just underneath the surface, words that desire freedom but never see the light of day. So strong and so competitive, able to dig **just** right and gouge deep marks even in the thickest of hides. Like *NameUnknown*, this one is a warrior to the bones. Contests are the king of the kills._

     _A daughter of the Creator, the one who built the Geth himself, she lives in the light of her father’s decision, forced into exile because of his foolish actions. Bright and strong, she takes most things with a truckload of salt, verifying everything before thinking about taking action. Despite being so young, though not the youngest on board, she’s highly intelligent. A victim of circumstance, she’s taken in by the stars and quickly makes friends with the Archangel._

      _A bright pink helmet. A lady with strong determination, but also a bucket-load of wariness for alien races. She often watched them quietly, wondering if the Human race really needed the help of the Citadel to survive. In the end, even she admitted that she had been wrong, that they had needed to work together. ‘Humans….’ she’d once said, famously, ‘aliens, we’re all animals.’ She hadn’t made it past the final battle with the Reapers, her name added to the memorial right next to *NameUnknown’s* own._

     _A rifle with a scarred handle, old and loved, now retired to hang on a wall. Jessie, so strong and beautiful, so still in death, and he needed to remember her, even in the darkest pits of his job. He names his beloved rifle after his sister, heart pounding in his chest with the thrill of the hunt and the thought that she might be right there next to him, cheering him on. They are, after all, together against all odds; the perfect team._

     _A pursuer of Justice, chasing it across many planets, they hunt for their daughter in order to end the loss of innocent lives. A choice can be made there, save the daughter, the killer and liar, or help the mother, grieving and heartbroken, but understanding of the need. They’re strong, so strong, with power that ripples underneath their skin and fills the air around them with a biotic glow. Perhaps, one day, they may even call you ‘friend.’_

     _A scientist of the highest degree, so intelligent that he speaks only in the shortest of sentences. Blunt to the point of being a weapon, he speaks exactly what he thinks, even if one didn’t want to hear his advice. It always seems to be useful in the end though, for as often his unwanted words save the lives of many by pure accident, it often saves sex lives as well. And he’s quite the singer, too, easily keeping tone with some of the oldest artists of the green planet. “I am the very model of a scientist Salarian…”_

     _A man of Cerberus, yet not a hundred percent on board with its actions, he joined because the widow was there. He cared for her, knew that she’d need him to keep her stable, and joined the group anyway, despite all alarm bells warning him not to. Love conquers all, they say, even as she never noticed his watching form. He failed his sister, he wouldn’t fail her. Maybe, this time, he’ll be lucky in love._

     _A set of four eyes, bright yellow with double pupils. Alone for so many years, yet still able to take up the fight. Justice, Grief, and Hatred poured into one body, creating Vengeance that fought for those he had lost. He fought hard, refusing to give up until the very last Reaper had been purged from the galaxy. It’s amusing, though, to watch him interact with those who are young, mere children to his age, as it’s clear that he doesn’t know how to respond. Sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he watches the back of the ill one, interest and understanding burning in four eyes._

     _A man who enjoys the feel of the cards in his hands, he takes great pleasure in the game, even though he’s losing money  more often than not. He likens the time spent with his teammates like those spent with his family, memories that he never wishes to forget. ‘It’s glorious,’ he says, laughing as he sets down a card, ‘you are my family, and no one will ever take that away from me.’_

     _A powerful being, scarred and ready for battle; they take flack from no one, and often prove it. In the end they become the leader of their clan, working on bringing everyone to glory, whether they want to or not. Red eyes glow brightly in time with blue biotitcs, and they crush their enemies in their rampages. It’s glorious, their abilities, and they’re impressive in a battle, leading the soldiers to victory. A close friend, and an even closer confident._

     _A creation of The-One-Who-Is-Not, she originally does her job well, keeping an eye on the reborn redhead, but doubt sinks in slowly. When they come, stealing the crew from the ship and endangering the Jester, she is released, freed into the system of the Normandy, protecting those left behind from harm. She breaks free of The-One-Who-Is-Not, deciding in the end that the Commander is the better one to follow. Bright in heart, though she does not have a body, she is free in the end._

     _A ruler of Omega, they’re so strong, bright, and the leader of intelligence gathering. They have an entire network of spies at their hands, and often knows everything that there is to know. If it happens on Omega, they are aware of it, whether one wants them to or not. Archangel somehow manages to make friends with them, cleaning out the planet’s filth with a vengeance. Perhaps they are much the same._

     _A Turian with a strong sense of justice, one who is friends with the ruler of Omega, she helps you politely every time it is needed. She is strong, despite a lack of biotics, a fighter to the absolute end. Brave and loyal, she will always be there for your call, knowing that she may or may not be at the end of the line. Perhaps, one day, she will find the other half of her heart._

     _A Spectre gone rogue, mind shut down by the powerful ship, he’s desperate to free himself. And, is able to do so long enough to take his own life, going down satisfied that he is himself in the end. A deep pure love beats in his heart for his student, yet a fear of rejection keeps him quiet. His fraten left him, abandoned him suddenly, and maybe *NameUnknown* would too. He fears it, knows of the possibility, and instead settles for loving the carmine Spectre from a distance. It was that love that drove him to kill the other with a head-shot, if only to save the other part of his heart from the horrors of the future._

     _A Spectre whose life is ended far too soon, lost to the hands of the one he loved with all of his heart. He feared his mentor leaving, forcing them to separate, and so he breathes not a word, terrified of what he does not know. Perhaps, had both of them been truthful with each other, they would have made it to the end. The one with the skeleton grin will do them well, protecting them both with everything his sniper rifle can give, and then some for good measure._

     _A youngling, so young according to their people, they study those who have been lost in order to understand everything that there is to them. They are ecstatic to meet a live one, to learn from an actual source that hasn’t long since been lost to time. Except they’re too forward, too interested, and taking a hint may or may not be impossible, leading to avoidance. Perhaps, if they had waited longer, he would be willing to speak of his past._

_A creation, so new, so young, and so strong. He is not born, but created, brought into existence on the ship that sails through the stars, and they willingly fight for the redheaded woman. She has proved herself to them, and they are willing, even going as far as going through the puberty ritual on their home planet, gleefully ripping a Thresher Maw into two. It’s glorious, they are bright and strong, and a burning supernova in the darkness of the galaxy._

     Even if Eden Prime was a mistake, he still managed to meet the people who would change his ideals forever.

     Meeting them again is going to be interesting, the faint sensation tells him. He can’t help but agree. Life around the _Normandy_ is _always_ interesting.


	12. Of Tattoos, Shaved Heads, and Curly Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack has marks. She conceals them with tattoos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cerberus gets their hands on Jack later than canon in Shifting Sands.

     Jack doesn’t understand why she has so many soulmarks. She’s crass, blunt, violent, and prone to tantrums when she doesn’t get her way. She knows she’s not likable, but the fact is, at least according to her marks, she somehow winds up with a shit-ton of allies, if not actual friends. It’s mesmerizing, really.  

     And, on her eighteen birthday, after her mother has bitched about her soulmarks one time too many, she takes all the money she’s saved up and marches over to the nearest tattoo shop. Once inside, she flops into a seat and attempts to glare daggers into the nearest wall.

     “Can I help you?” someone asks, and she looks up to see a really pretty lady with bright pink hair.

     “Yeah,” Jack returns. “I’m in a tattoo place, what the hell do you _think_ I want?”

     The lady grins. “Well, you’re a blunt ray of sunshine, aren’t ya? I like you. Half-price.”

     Jack blinks at her. “You can do that?”

     “Damn straight I can do that. I own the damn place. Name’s Miri. Now, whaddaya want?” Miri asks and leads Jack into a smaller room. She closes the door and points to a chair.

     “I…” Jack begins slowly. “I want something to lock my soulmarks in place and make them look like ink. Not moving things that make my mother hit me for having them.”

     Miri frowns. “All right,” she says at last. “If you can pay for it, I’ll ink it onto you. Like I said earlier, the job’s half-price. And keep in mind, if you need a place to hide, there’s a key in the front right lantern.

     Jack settles down into the chair and watches lazily as Miri grabs her equipment and sets up. She starts with the jack-o-lantern, chasing it onto Jack’s right shoulder and then surrounding it with a blocky outline, turning it into a massive, grinning skull. The mark doesn’t move an inch, almost as if it knows what is going on. “Spin the chair,” the lady orders. Jack does so and watches as she outlines a second, matching skull on her other shoulder. “Everything will match; it’ll be perfectly symmetrical.”

     It takes several hours, but soon every mark is surrounded by a faint, ink outline of the tattoo that will surround it. The _Normandy_ is on Jack’s back, spiraling up towards her neck through a sea of stars. A dagger, the one with the lip mark, winds up on her neck, the blade pointing down towards the ship. The gun with the gray, biotic eye chooses a spot on her hip, locked in with swirls of dark blue. The rifle takes a matching spot on her opposite hip, both of them cocked, aimed, and quiet, almost like they’re waiting for her orders.

     The Cerberus mark takes up position in the small of her back, hiding itself underneath the _Normandy_ , glowing intermittently with blue. “Stop that,” Jack says, looking at it in the mirror later that evening. It does.

     Ringing around the jack-o-lantern mark skull are two other, obviously Turian marks. They won’t leave the jack-o-lantern behind and Jack gives in after the third incident. “Move,” she’d tell them, but the two marks wouldn’t budge. “Fine,” she eventually says, “you can stay, but no glowing shit. I don’t want you to be outed as soulmarks.”

     The mark, the one with the cybernetic eye, glows faintly and then nuzzles down against the skull. It’s hilarious when the crossed daggers follow, shrinking in size until they’re comfortably nestled against the other two. “So fucking sweet it’s giving me cavities,” Jack mutters, somehow not dredging up enough emotion to be angry. They’re like puppies, really.

     On her other shoulder, the mark with the two Drell eyes has moved into the sockets of the other skull. Surrounding it, looking like bloody eyeballs, is the yellow, four-eyed mark with the double pupils. The moment Jack notices the fact that they always stay within range of each other, even going as far as snuggling when it gets cold, she laughs herself sick, all the while wondering to whom the Drell is, more or less, married to.

     It’s glorious.

     Settling itself onto her stomach, the two helmets seem to shape themselves around her navel. One, bright pink, folds itself in half and settles on the left side of her stomach. The purple one with the shawl folds itself and takes position on the right side of her stomach. It’s like one mark slowly morphs into the other.

     The three marks for Asari settle on her back, one on the right shoulder, one on the left, and the final one within three inches above the _Normandy_. Jack eyes them in the mirror and snickers. On her right arm, a series of red, blood-colored speckles surrounding syringe takes up position on her bicep. Further down is a deck of cards, a royal flush. There’s also a holographic eye, red _Familia Notas_ for another Turian, a single card; the Joker, a blinking Geth eye, and two marks that obviously belong to Krogan.

     How interesting. She’s certainly going to meet a lot of people.

**oOo**

     Then she’s capture by Cerberus, stolen away in the night. Not that Jack really minds being away from her bitch of a mother, but really, she didn’t sign up to be experimented on.

     Shitiest. Vacation. Ever.

     She wants a refund, dammit.

     Said refund appears in the form of a female Cerberus operative, gorgeous curly hair and a fantastic figure. She undoes Jack’s bindings without a sound, and Jack suddenly realizes that the cameras in the area of all off. “Come on,” the lady hisses.

     Jack narrows her eyes at her, sore, bleeding, and desperately wanting to kill _something_. “And why the _hell_ should I listen to you, Cheerleader?”

     Cheerleader rolls her eyes and yanks up the sleeve of her outfit. There on her arm is Jack’s tattoos, a full sleeve from wrist to her elbow. “It goes up to my shoulder,” the lady adds. “I’m most likely the biotic Cerberus mark that I saw on the small of your back. Now come on, we need to get out of here right now.”

     “What?”

     “Oh my god,” Cheerleader mutters. “I’m getting you out of here. No one deserves this. My name’s Miranda.”

     “Jack.”

     “This way. I’ve shut down all the cameras and there’s a ship already running, waiting for us in the hanger.” Miranda whirls around, grabs Jack by her arm, and then drags her out of the room.

     Jack lets her.


	13. Of Purple Helmets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tali's had marks since she was born. Many of them save her life

     Between Tali being born as a Quarian and her suit, she rarely sees her soulmarks. Yet she can remember each one, exactly as the day she first saw them. Most of them she was born with, the marks decorating her skin and making her parents twitter excitedly at the sheer number of them. Twenty separate marks, each in a different place. Before they swaddle her in her baby-sized suit, each mark is carefully recorded and a guess is taken as to which species it belongs to.

     All in all, Tali has at least three, maybe four marks that belong to Turians, three that belong to Asari, at least one Salarian, one Drell, nine humans, and one that no one recognizes.

     Growing up, she spends a lot of time with the suit off and studying the mark that no one recognizes. It’s a set of eyes, four of them to be exact, and they’re closed as if in sleep. Once, when their family is attacked in their safe house and she screams in horror, the eyes opened revealing yellow irises with double pupils in each one, pulsed green, and then the being on the other end used her body as a conduit for a powerful burst of biotics.

     She, on the other hand, isn’t biotic in the least. The enemies fall and Tali stares at her parents. “That wasn’t me,” she says at last, all of eight years old and just as wide-eyed and surprised as her father.

     “Then who?” her father asks, scooping her up in his arms. “Who?”

     “The four-eyed mark. The eyes opened and then glowed the exact same color.”

     Tali’s mother hums thoughtfully. “It has been heard of for someone to reach through the link, though it doesn’t happen often…”

     “I screamed,” Tali admits.

     Her father laughs. “I know. I heard. You have your mother’s lungs.” He ducks a slap aimed at his head and dances away.

     “You mean she has _your_ lungs,” her mother says, and the implications of the remark fly directly over Tali’s head. Her father goes red, but she doesn’t notice, already in the process of falling asleep on his shoulder. Even if the biotics weren’t hers, she still channeled them, and that sort of thing is exhausting. She accepts the suit being put on her without a fuss and doesn’t say a word as her parents gather what they can and flee into the night.

**oOo**

     The jack-o-lantern mark saves her once, too. She’s ten years old, hiding in the woods from a bunch of adults who are trying to rip her suit open, trying to kill her, when the mark travels up her stomach, across her chest, and onto her face. She can see its reflection on the inside of her helmet and Tali tilts her head to the side, watching as the mouth moves. It seems to be telling her something. A rustle in the brush attracts her attention and the Quarian leaps to her feet as quietly as she can, pressing her back against the tree. She trembles.

For a moment, absolutely nothing moves. Nothing breathes. For a moment, Tali can almost pretend that there isn’t something on the other side of the bushes just waiting to kill her. The jack-o-lantern mark reflected on the inside of her mask mouths something and her eyes automatically flicker to it. **_Hold still_** , she realizes it’s saying and tries her best to lock her muscles. To freeze in place.

     There’s a heartbeat of silence, then the adults chasing her stumble out of the bushes on the other side of the clearing, cackling and mocking her name. “Come out, little bitch!” the leader calls, beer bottle in his hand, “I know you’re here!”

     The bushes rustle again. **_Don’t move_** , the mark mouths.

     “There you are,” the leader sneers, stomping over to the rustling bushes. He throws them open, stares, and then _screams_ when a monster leaps out and tears into him. Tali freezes, eyes wide at the sheer amount of _blood_ inside of a body. Her voice is stuck somewhere in her throat, halfway between her vocal cords and her mouth, and she crumples a little against the tree.

     The rest of the adults scatter, abandoning their leader to his death, and the voice stuck in Tali’s throat suddenly isn’t stuck anymore. She screams, high and shrill and probably at the pitch of a dog whistle, and the beast’s head instantly snaps to look at her. It growls, low and deep, rips the meat it had been feasting on from the kill, takes a step forward, and then lunges, mouth open and fangs in full view.

     In a pathetic attempt to protect herself, Tali screws her eyes shut, and throws her hands out, sure that she's going to die. On the inside of her mask, the jack-o-lantern glows white and then flames roar around the clearing. The smell of singed fur and flesh fills the air. She opens her eyes and blanches the moment she realizes that the once green grass is brown and dead. Flames still lick at the remains of the beast. **_Run_** , the mark tells her and this time Tali actually listens to it. 

     She whirls around and bolts, racing through the woods as she practically stampedes over everything in her path to get back to her home.

     Once inside, safe from the world and run through several decontamination cycles, she lets her parents undo the suit. On the outside, nothing is damaged, not even a scratch. But once inside, Tali realizes that her hands are charred, the flesh red and blistering. The jack-o-lantern mark winks at her from its place on her arm and she breaks into tears.

     These marks upon her flesh, people she’s never met before in her entire life, have saved her life. Twice.

     Once Tali would have been hesitant to meet the beings on the other end. Now she can’t wait. She owes them all a thank you anyway.


	14. Of Blue Skin and Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samara does not really care about their marks. Justice is far more important. That doesn't mean the marks aren't adorable though

     Samara has many marks, most of them they pay absolutely no attention to. It’s not like the things matter anyway. They’re far more interested in the pursuit of justice.  A huff escapes their lips, and they glance down at their skin. The only other marks they have that interest them are the red-eyed, scarred one that belongs to a Krogan, the biotic one that belongs to Thane Krios, an odd one with four, biotic eyes that sleeps almost all of the time, and the one that belongs to Aria. Samara had figured Aria's mark out a while back. They have an interesting friendship going on now.

     Their age is bordering on ridiculous when a new mark appears. It also belongs to an Asari, but it’s small, with blue skin and purple freckles. The profile blinks at them and then nuzzles into their wrist, eyes sliding closed as it drifts off. Newly born then, probably just finished coming into existence. Touching the other end with their mind, they catch images of Protheans, ruins, and a ship in the stars. They huff at the mark, roll their eyes when it makes soundless coos at them, and then cover their hands with gloves. It’s awfully cold on the Citadel.

     Then again, it is the middle of winter, and Samara should know better than to expect decent temperatures from the place. And going around with anything uncovered is just _asking_ for frostbite.

     It takes about fifty four years for the next mark to appear, and Samara blinks at it when it does. Red splatters that usually form on Salarians, overlapped with a syringe. The coloring looks odd on their skin, the red looking more purple due to their blue coloring. Samara huffs out a laugh and touches it, eyes glowing just slightly as they utilize the connection to see through the other end's eyes. There's not much there, the Salarian newly born, but they get a glimpse of shadows, thoughts, and a ship among the stars, the mind of the babe already whirling away. They also get a glimpse of the gender. This mark belongs to a very intelligent being. Samara looks forward to meeting him.

     Not even four years after that, the red _Familia Notas_ of a Turian appears, itching itself into their skin. They press a finger against it and breathe in, noting what little there is to know about the other end. A female, three days old. Their future is blurry, but just like the Salarian, there is the image of a ship flying through the stars. It seems to be a common theme here, for even Aria and the Krogan had the same image.

     A ship in the stars, the name on the wing obscured by shadows, but there all the same. Samara is fairly certain it starts with a 'N'. They wonder who it belongs to. It's clearly well taken care of, the metal clean and shiny, the shields glowing strong. Inside the lit window of the CIC, they can see someone standing there, the figure exuding confidence and shrouded in darkness.

     Three years after the first Turian mark appears, another one forms. At least, Samara thinks it belongs to a Turian. The mark is wide, a pair of gleaming eyes with a wide, fanged mouth grinning widely at them. An omni-tool search brings up information and pictures that tell them that the mark is traditionally found on jack-o-lanterns on planet Earth around a time called Halloween. Samara blinks at the fanged mouths carved into pumpkins, lit from the inside with candles and glowing ominously in the night, and huffs a laugh. Humans are such odd creatures. They touch it with their mind, jerking back at how _aware_ the other end is. _'Hello,'_ the other end seems to say, and the mark winks at them. Samara doesn't touch it again. Asari they may be, older than dirt they may be, but some things are a bit _too_ freaky.

     About thirteen months and three days after the jack-o-lantern mark first appears, another one forms. This, too, is a Turian; a pair of biotic eyes surrounded by what can only be a fringe of Valluvian horns. How interesting. Samara hasn't seen any Turians with Valluvian horns lately; they'd been fairly certain that the ancient trait had died out long ago. Apparently not, for this tiny, new being obviously has them. Perhaps they are of the line? Samara wonders who they are, watching with vague amusement as the mark curls up against the jack-o-lantern one.

     Three years after that, a pair of crossed daggers inked with white _Familia Notas_ appears, almost immediately snuggling up with the other two in the crook of their elbow, nuzzling against the jack-o-lantern one, and attempting to pepper the Valluvian horned one with 'kisses'. The first mark lets the daggers curl up against it, amusement radiating from the mark. Valluvian horns, on the other hand, dodges the 'kisses' with ridiculous skill, hiding behind the other mark in an attempt to gain protection. It doesn't work though, for the jack-o-lantern cheerfully slides out of the way, sometimes even siding with the daggers and 'kissing' Valluvian senseless.

     A rifle appears on their skin almost three years later, the name 'Jessie' burned into the side of the handle. It's clearly well loved, but an echoing sadness seems to flicker through the mark. Samara touches the mark bearer's mind, but can't find why. It's almost as if the mark seems to know a bit of what may come.

     Several more human marks appear, each one radiating their own emotion of understanding. The Cerberus mark is interesting though. Like the jack-o-lantern, it radiates a level of _awareness_ that a newborn should not have. It nods at her, the mark flipping on her skin in a motion that screams, _'Hello, it's nice to see you.'_ Samara twitches slightly and draws away, thoroughly unnerved. Newborns should not understand what goes on around them, yet both Cerberus and Jack-o-lantern seem to know exactly what is going on.

            Jack-o-lantern, now in the military and training to be a sniper, always seems to be laughing at them, _knowledge_ burning on the other side. Samara tries very hard to not brush the mark with their mind, the sheer volume of understanding on the other side creeping them out far more than it should. It's almost like the being on the other end is an ancient, all knowing Asari, not an eighteen year old, male Turian. 

     They shake their head and sigh, and move on, vowing to pay less attention to the marks that may or may not appear in the future.

     The hunt for justice is never ending, and Samara does not need distractions.


	15. Of Rifles and Mercenaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zaeed runs into a truly insane Turian. He's rather impressed

     Zaeed is born with soulmarks that drive him absolutely insane. He starts drinking well before the legal age and then blames his drinking habits on them. Especially the jack-o-lantern mark. The damn thing seems to take glee in winking at him, glowing in the night like a goddamned nightlight, and attempting to bite him every time his fingers go near the stupid thing. Then there's the flame in its mouth, curling up brightly every time he so much as glances in the damn thing's direction. That, combined with the burning flame roaring around him when he's sixteen, so much fury and hatred rolling through the connection that his skin blisters, makes Zaeed extremely wary of the mark.

     The three marks that belong to Asari aren't that bad. Sure, they twitter and glow suspiciously like they're laughing whenever the jack-o-lantern mark bites him, and sometimes they glow with biotics, throwing enemies across the room for him. Them channeling their biotic power through him used to make him exhausted, but eventually his body grows used to it and eventually, though he'll never be able to use biotics on his own, Zaeed makes a damn good battery.

     In fact, the only mark that doesn't bother him is the four-eyed one. It seems to be sleeping and, not once in the entire time he's had it, has it opened its eyes. The only reason he knows that it's also biotic is because the irises beneath heavy lids occasionally glow a faint green.

     The other three marks definitely belong to Turians, possibly the jack-o-lantern as well, but he knows that those three do. There's one with biotic eyes, wreathed in a fringe-like circle; he wakes up one morning and the biotic eyes have been replaced with cybernetic ones, one that's simply red marks he knows are _Familia Notas,_ and one that's a pair of crossed daggers, white markings crossing over the handle and spilling over onto the razor-sharp blade. Occasionally, rarely but it does happen, the mark with the new cybernetic eyes will light with biotics, hurling Zaeed's opponents with such force that they splatter against walls.

     Zaeed's really impressed with the biotic Turian's power. He's even more impressed when he has a run in with Saren Arterius and realizes exactly who's on the other end of the cybernetic eye mark. Of course, naturally, that means the crossed daggers are his protege Nihlus Kryik. He eyes the three marks nestled together in the crook of his elbow and wonders who the third is. Who is the jack-o-lantern?

     Then, one day while he's on the Citadel for some god-forsaken reason that he no longer remembers, Zaeed has a run in with a ridiculous Turian. They're armored head to toe in a blue so deep it's almost black, and they're currently running from Saren Arterius, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with the Spectre close behind. Arterius seems to be somewhere between furious and homicidal, face dark with murderous promise. Kryik is right behind him, laughing so hard he's having trouble running in a straight line. Zaeed watches with wide eyes from the ground far below as the dark blue armored Turian races for the edge of a roof, plants their hands onto the railing there, and does a handspring right over the edge.

     There's no way they'll be able to jump the forty plus foot distance between the rooftops--Zaeed is already preparing to get out of the way so that the other won't land on him--when something flickers just underneath the Turian's feet and they rebound off of thin air, do a triple flip, rebound off of thin air again, and then vanish onto the other rooftop. Arterius skids to a halt at the edge of the first building and starts cursing violently, fury painted across his face. Kryik crumples into a heap against the railing, clutches at his stomach and laughs until all he can make are little wheezing noises. He sounds like he's dying. Arterius snarls once and slaps his student over the head before stalking off in a huff, Kryik still laughing as he pads behind his mentor like an over-eager puppy.

     Zaeed gets the feeling that this has happened before. Many times. It doesn't make the situation any less hilarious though.

     It is, after all, not every day that one gets to see Saren Arterius be outsmarted.

**oOo**

     Then he actually meets that insane Turian himself about a week and a half later. “Oh, hello,” the other says when they notice him. “You're that human I saw on the ground below me when I jumped buildings. The one that stepped out of the way.”

     “And you're the Turian that rebounded off of thin air twice, escaping Arterius in the process; the one I thought was going to land on me.” Zaeed hums thoughtfully for a second and then adds, “Nicely done. I don't think I've ever seen someone look that homicidal before. I'm Zaeed.”

     “Ah ha ha!” the other laughs, stretching out as much as they can in the blue-black armor. “Thank you. I take great joy in messing with Arterius. He's quite the looker when furious. And you may refer to me as Ember.”

     Zaeed shakes his head. “A bit too much information there. But what I wanted to know is how you did that rebound off of thin air thing.”

     “Would you believe me if I said it was magic?” Ember asks slyly.

     “Not on your life,” Zaeed returns flatly and then pauses, something niggling at the back of his mind. “Ember, huh? You wouldn't happen to be a jack-o-lantern soulmark, would you?”

     Ember twitches slightly and then sighs. “Damn, busted. Yes, that's me. Kyrik and Arterius don't know that yet, so I'd appreciate it if you _didn't_ inform them of it.”

     “Will do. Now about that rebound thing...”

     “Ah, that's a trademark secret. Sorry. See if you can figure it out, though.” Ember takes a step in closer and whispers, “I have Arterius trying to figure it out, too. It drives him insane every time I escape him.”

     Zaeed huffs, but accepts the answer. “So why was Arterius chasing you?” he asks as the two of them begin walking down the street.

     Without a word, Ember holds up a pair of high-powered pistols, _Arterius_ scrawled down the sides. Zaeed does a double-take, eyes huge. “Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes, “no wonder Arterius was chasing you. I'm surprised he wasn't trying to kill you.”

     Ember laughs cheerfully, spins both pistols once, and then squirrels them away somewhere in his armor. Zaeed has no idea where they went. “What makes you think he wasn't trying to kill me? Besides, it's great fun, really. And I always return whatever I take within a day or so.”

     “And if he's off the Citadel?”

     “I drop them off in the Spectre Offices with his name on a note.” Ember eyes Zaeed with obvious amusement. “C'mon, Zaeed. I'm not _that_ much of an asshole. Anyway, not only is it great practice for me, but Kryik takes obvious joy out of the situations.” 

     “I smell an 'and' that you're not mentioning.”

     “And it's entertaining to make Arterius show emotions other than bored contempt and irritation.” Ember laughs again, gleeful and free, and then lazily waves a hand. “I'll see you later, Zaeed. I have a pair of guns I need to return before Arterius blows a blood vessel.” He bounces once off of the ground, twice off of thin air, grabs a railing and flips himself up and onto a rooftop.

     Zaeed tries very hard to not be jealous. He wants to be able to do that, too.


	16. Of Speckles and Scientists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordin has a fall and a lucky find. Javik isn't as alone as he thinks he is

     If there's anything Mordin _is_ good at, it's figuring things out. He eyes the soulmarks on his body, notes the position of each, and mentally tallies up which is which. He might be young, but he's intelligent, and the Salarian isn't going to let the few non-species-specific marks get the better of him. He'll figure out each mark even if it kills him.

     Well, not really. Mordin's rather fond of living and he'd really like to stay in one piece right now. He eyes the marks on his skin with a huffing breath and gingerly presses a hand against the flying ship. Pain knifes up his finger and the Salarian eyes the scabbed over teeth marks embedded in the pad of his finger with a frown. Prizes from the jack-o-lantern mark; he _had_ earned them though. That mark did _not_ appreciate being poked at with a finger and had promptly sank its fangs into Mordin's flesh. Had drawn quite a bit of blood, too. The scientist had ended up bandaging his finger in an attempt to keep from bleeding all over his own work.

     For a while, he wonders if it's at all possible to get blood poisoning from being bitten by a soulmark. Animals can incite the condition.

     He spends quite a bit of time looking over each and every mark upon his flesh, carefully documenting each one and the species that it belongs to. From the four that must be Turians; the jack-o-lantern mark included, the crossed daggers, the cybernetic eyes wreathed in Valluvian horns, and the simple red _Familia Notas,_ to the three profiles of Asari, to the lone, dark-eyed biotic Drell, the single, purple helmeted Quarian, to the red-eyed Krogan, to the multiple Human marks scattered along his body.

     All in all, there's only one mark that he doesn't understand. Well, to be precise, he knows _what_ it belongs to, but not who. He _is_ very interested though. It's not every day that one gets to meet a real Prothean.  Mordin can't help but wonder where the other is and how he can find them.

     Then he gets lucky. On a routine trip to Eden Prime to study the flora there, he makes the mistake of slipping, falling, and tumbling over the edge of a cliff. His life is saved purely by the rushing river down below, but the Salarian really can't find it within himself to be thankful. Instead of dashing himself into pieces on the rocks, he's going to drown in the rapids. _Fantastic_ , he thinks to himself, valiantly attempting to keep his head above the water.

     In the end, Mordin is entirely unsurprised when the rapids finally manage to suck him underneath the surface, dragging his weakly struggling form deeper into the pitch black water. His eyes slide closed as he sinks down, finally losing consciousness.

**oOo**

     He wakes up to darkness, soaked and shivering, but very much alive. His breathing is rapid-fire, short and quick as he heaves air in and out of his half-filled lungs, alternating between steadying his heart and coughing his lungs clear. Saliva, water, and small amounts of venom splatter across the ground as he finally heaves up the last of the liquid attempting to drown him, and Mordin staggers to his feet. He has absolutely no idea where he is, and his omni-tool was lost to the rapids, the pieces scattered along where he has washed ashore. Alone and unable to call for help.

     What Mordin does know fills him with excitement and dread. He seems to be in a series of underground ruins, the remains of buildings stretching towards the ceiling of the cave. He carefully picks his way over to one of the ruins and runs a hand along it, pausing only when the implications of what he has just found finally hits his brain.

     Mordin is standing in the remains of a previously unknown Prothean city. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” he breathes and begins examining the nearest wall, violently cursing the  loss of his omni-tool with renewed fervor. He could be recording this find right now, but noooooo, his omni-tool had to go and _break_ in the water. The Salarian huffs childishly and darts over to the next set of ruins, exploring with all the excitement of a five year old given free reign in a candy shop.

     He pokes his head cautiously through doorways, inwardly thanking the Salarian ability to see in the dark, and goes over walls multiple times, desperately attempting to commit everything to memory. The real find though, comes when Mordin stumbles across Prothean stasis pods. Some are cracked open and he can see the ruined remains of what used to be living beings, others are cracked, destroyed and burned. A few are still in one piece, silent as the grave, but all Mordin has to do is sniff at them and he instantly knows that there is rotting flesh inside.

     The Salarian huffs a breath and carefully picks his way through the remains of the stasis pods, pausing only when he comes across one in pristine condition. There are scratches on it, almost like something tried to pry it open, but there are no remains of anything around the pod. Whatever died here has long since rotted away. Mordin sniffs carefully but there is no smell of rotting flesh and his ears perk as he hears the faint hum of technology that is somehow still online. “Oh,” he says, stunned, immediately thinking of the four-eyed mark on his arm. “Hello.”

     There is no response, not that he was expecting one, and Mordin settles his back against the stasis pod. If he had his omni-tool, he could learn more about this pod, but his is broken and he's going to have to get a new one.

     Speaking of broken omni-tools, Mordin's going to have to find a way out of here. He'd rather not die inside of a cave, thank you very much. With a huff, the Salarian gets to his feet and begins searching for an exit. There has to be one _somewhere_.

     Two weeks later, he returns to the cave system, a brand new omni-tool attached to his wrist. Mordin spends hours cataloging the ruins, taking picture after picture and noting everything that catches his eye. He makes his way back to the stasis pod and scans it curiously. As he thought, it's still running, keeping whoever is inside unconscious. The Salarian runs his hands across it, noting how the metal slots together and where the pass-codes are to be put in. He doesn't know how it is to be activated, nor does he want to try anything. The stasis pod is quite damaged, according to his omni-tool, and attempting to get it open will most likely kill whoever is inside.

     Mordin would rather not do that. That would be bad. He has far too many questions that he wants to ask the other.

     So he settles for leaning against the side of the thing and talking. “Don't understand,” he begins. “Sleep for long time. World so different now. You won't speak common tongue.”  The Salarian hums thoughtfully. “Wonder what you'll think.”

**oOo**

     Other things happen, catch Mordin's attention, and the Salarian can't help but wonder if the world is just as insane as he thinks it is. Also, apparently, Saren Arterius has murderous intentions. He watches the Spectre chase down a blue-black armored being, fury painted across his bare face. Then the other vaults a railing, falls fifteen feet, and starts bouncing off of apparently invisible blocks, landing neatly on the ground by Mordin. They turn, wave cheerfully up at a visibly fuming Arterius, and then look at Mordin. “Hello,” they say, and the Salarian notes that it is a he. He also notes that the armored being is a Turian, because that species is the only one where it's common to find heights of seven or more feet.

     “Hello,” Mordin responds once he's found his tongue. “Rocket boots?” he asks, because he's always been curious.

     “Oooh!” the Turian says, “very nice. No, actually, but keep guessing. You may call me Ember.” He starts walking and the Salarian jogs a little to catch up.

     “Mordin. If not rocket boots, then what?”

     Ember laughs. “Trademark secret. Keep guessing, though.”

     Mordin frowns. Not rocket boots, but something along the lines. His first guess didn't feel right, but he'd voiced it anyway. It looked like Ember had actually been bouncing on mid-air, easily flipping down from the top of a fifty foot tall building. He frowns, clicking his tongue as he thinks. It's actually really familiar, something that he's heard of before, but the Salarian can't seem to recall the name. “Any reason why Arterius was chasing you?”

     Ember's laughter morphs into cackles.

     The Salarian immediately decides that he's better off not knowing.


	17. Of Pink Helmets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashley is sneaky. She knows more than she should. She also gets a kick out of dealing with Saren

     Ashley's born with a ridiculous amount of marks, a good chunk of them being non-human. Sure, the Relay Incident sends them all into hiding, slinking along her skin when she attempts to look at them, but they're still there. Some of them just whoosh out of sight, zipping along her arm in nearly blurry lines of ink that make her dizzy watching. Others find spots on places she _can't_ look at. The back of her neck, her hair, that sort of area. The rest, like the jack-o-lantern mark and the really strong biotic ones, just disappear.

     It's really creepy to feel something spidering its way up her arm, except whenever she looks, there's nothing there. Sometimes, if Ashley concentrates really hard, blurs her eyes, and focuses far beyond her arm, she can see the faint outline of the invisible marks as they move across her skin.

     When she's six years old, bright and cheerful, absolute fury rolls along her skin in a wave of hatred that's impossibly intense. Ashley stumbles into the kitchen, crying as the jack-o-lantern mark wreathes flames along her skin, sticks her arm under the sink faucet, and tries to drown the pain in ice water.

     It really only starts to work when the wordless fury from the mark ebbs into agitation and anger.

     Eventually the anger is replaced with a sort of vindictive satisfaction and bone-deep relief.

**oOo**

     Ashley is ninety-nine percent sure that the jack-o-lantern soulmark is out to get her. It keeps _winking_ at her, especially when she so much as _looks_ at anything pink. Damn thing keeps creeping her out. And, when she meets Shepard, she finds out that it's not exclusive to her. “It does it to me, too,” Shepard admits uncomfortably, shoving red hair out of her eyes. “Creepy, isn't it?”

     “Damn straight,” Joker cuts in, pauses, and then adds, “Every time I tell a joke, even if it's a shitty one, the mark winks and its mouth shivers. I'm fairly certain that the thing is _laughing_. Creepiest soulmark _ever_.”

     Kaidan nods. “I have to agree. Creepy as it is, the mark did help me cheat on one of my tests when I was younger. Had a teacher who really hated my class and tried constantly to fail all of us by putting information on tests...”

     Shepard raises a single brow and cuts in with, “That doesn't sound too bad.”

     “Well, it wouldn't be that bad if it was information we had actually gone over in class. No, she put stuff we never read about on tests and then would tell us that we should have studied better when we'd complain. That woman _thrived_ on our misery.”

     Ashley hums softly. “So, did anyone have the jack-o-lantern mark flare up like a fireball on their sixth birthday?”

     Kaidan raises a hand sheepishly. Shepard nods, then amends with, “I was seven.” Joker groans and rubs at a small burn scar across the palm of his hands.

     “I wonder what happened to make them so furious.”

     Shepard purses her lips. “Actually, I think I heard about this one. Seems there was a serial killer having the time of their life on the Citadel a while back. According to C-Sec's information, it was a Salarian obsessed with getting his wife back. She'd died of some sort of disease. Apparently, and this is _nasty_ , he would hunt down people with similarities to his dead wife, give his victims flowers, and then he'd kidnap them a little while later. Then he'd dissect them while they were still alive and use their body parts to rebuild his wife.”

    “Jesus fucking Christ,” Ashley whispers, looking quite green in the face. Kaidan nods.

     “What she said.”

    Joker blinks. “So what happened to the bastard? They wouldn't know all this if he hadn't been caught.”

     “Apparently the serial killer kidnapped the visiting mother of one of the C-Sec Officers. And, according to this,” Shepard says, flicking through information on her omni-tool, “one Detective Vakarian did _not_ appreciate that, and hunted the bastard down. The burn through the mark must have been when he found out about her disappearance.” The redhead flips to another page and snorts. “Vakarian dragged the bastard back to C-Sec with both kneecaps blown out and a whole lotta other injuries.”

     “And his mother?” Ashley asks, nibbling her bottom lip with worry.

     “She was fine. Vakarian got to them just in time to watch his mother punt the Salarian across the room and into a wall. Broke his jaw _and_ his nose.”

     Kaidan roars with laughter. “Must be one hell of a lady!”

     “Yeah. Says here that she's one of the leading scientists on Palavan.”

     Ashley lets out a whistle. “Impressive. I think I'm gonna make her my new role model.”

**oOo**

     Two months before Ashley is set to be stationed on a guard post on Eden Prime, she dodges out of the way of a Turian in blue-black armor while walking about on the Citadel. “Excuse me, sorry 'bout that!” they call back; she notes the armored fringe and decides that the other is male. A couple of seconds later, Saren Arterius blows by in a glow of biotics, utterly furious.

     “GET BACK HERE WITH THOSE!” he practically bellows.

     The Turian he's chasing whirls around just long enough to blow him a kiss before spinning around again, planting one foot on the wall by a stairwell, and pushing off to run across thin air, the ground almost forty feet below him. Arterius skids to a halt at the edge, panting and snarling, too furious to actually voice any words as he watches the other disappear into the distance. Curious, and because Ashley's never exactly had the best self-preservation instincts, she saunters over. “So, uh, do I want to know what that was about?”

     Spectre Arterius gives her a furious scowl. Ashley merely blinks back at him, unfazed. From behind them comes a snort.

     “Heya, Saren,” Nihlus Kryik says as he saunters into view. “I see that bastard got away again.”

     Arterius growls, still too far gone to actually voice anything. Ashley can see his hands flexing like he wants to strangle something. “Went right over the wall,” she says, gesturing in its direction, “and ran across thin air. I was ninety percent certain that I was seeing things until Arterius started growling and snarling.”

     Kryik nods. “Yeah, that's his favorite method of getting away, vaulting railings and running out of reach. We're still not sure how he's doing it and we haven't been able to catch him either.”

     “Any reason why you're chasing him down?”

     Arterius snarls again and slams his fist into a nearby wall, making the whole thing shake. Kryik grins. “The bastard likes to steal Saren's stuff and run off with it. Don't worry, it always gets returned later on, but it drives Saren nuts that he can't catch the other.”

     Ashley hums. “Must be frustrating.”

     “Damn straight.” Kryik laughs cheerfully. “See you later,” he says and begins steering Saren towards the market.

     A couple of seconds after they're gone, she glances around quickly and then says, “You can come down now.” The Turian drops off of a nearby roof and saunters over. “Stealing from Arterius? I can't decide if you're insane or not.”

     “I have balls of steel,” the other says.

     “I thought Turians didn't have balls,” Ashley remarks, completely flat.

     He shrugs. “Not the point.”

     “Ashley Williams.”

     “I suppose you can call me Ember.”

     Ashley blinks, raises a single brow, and then asks, “Like a jack-o-lantern candle ember?” and is pleased to see the other twitch.

     “ _Spirits_ ,” Ember mutters. “That's two now who caught that. I must be losing my touch because this is just ridiculous.”

     She grins. “Don't worry about it, Officer Vakarian.”

     Vakarian groans. “What the actual hell?”

     “Read the story about the Salarian serial killer. Jack-o-lantern mark _burned_ that day. From there it was just a matter of putting the pieces together.”

     “Oh my god,” he mutters. “You Humans are much too smart for your own good. And you might as well just go ahead and call me Garrus. Not around Arterius though. He's much too fun to rile up.”

     Ashley nods. “As long as you tell me how you did that walk-on-air thing.”

     Garrus huffs a laugh. “Well, you see, it works like this....”


	18. Of Dark Lips and Beards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob is quite a bit different this time around. Things are already changing

     Jacob grows up with the idea that alien races are disgusting. With his father long gone, there's only his mother, who does not approve of the marks on his skin; the ones that belong to Turians, Drells, Quarians, Salarians, Asari, and whatever the hell the four-eyed one is, and makes sure that he knows it. In the end, Jacob grows up to resent the marks; they're the reason why his mother doesn't love him as much as she would if he didn't have them.

     It seems like the marks know of his dislike for them, as they always seem to disappear whenever he tries to look at them. The Human ones do it too, something that disappoints him just slightly. They seem to be of the same understanding; hate one of us and we'll all go poof on you. All 'United we stand, divided we fall.' Jacob honestly doesn't mind, really, as it keeps others from mocking his own marks.

     But things change. One morning, two weeks after his mother passes on; he's barely fourteen, Jacob comes across a young Drell female. She's probably ten years old; he can't really tell, used to being around humans, but the men standing around her are laughing and mocking the girl. Bruises ring her neck, her clothing is ripped, and she's crying, and something inside of Jacob _snaps_. He lunges forward, kicks out the kneecap of one of the adults with a satisfying crunch, grabs the Drell girl's hand, and drags her into the nearest alley.

    Hearing the shouts of the men behind them, he pushes her through a tiny hole knowing that they wouldn't be followed, and then leads her to his home. Once inside, with the door locked, he grabs the first-aid kit and faces her. “You all right?” he asks, somewhat disbelieving of the fact that there is a _Drell_ in his home. Granted, she's tiny and most likely younger than he is, but he still has one of the alien races sitting on his couch.

     His mother's probably rolling in her grave right now.

     But Jacob looks at the tiny Drell, staring up at him with huge, terrified eyes, bruises ringing her neck, legs, and arms and clothing ripped, and he can't bring himself to hate her. With that thought in mind, he sets about tending to her injuries, wincing every time she whimpers from the pain. And, sometime during that half-hour; he doesn't know when, his soulmarks flicker back into view. But the little girl sees them and attempts to gently brush a hand over one, giggling as the Drell eyes blink lazily at her and dodge her fingers.

     She finds her own mark on his skin and grins widely, much more at ease. Jacob is a bit surprised to see his own dark lips on the back of her hand, what looks like a neatly trimmed beard underneath. He grabs two glasses of water, hands one over and takes a sip. The mark sticks its tongue out at him, blowing a soundless raspberry, and he chokes on his drink, slaps a hand over his mouth, and still manages to spray a fine mist of water into the air.

     The Drell giggles wildly.

     Jacob coughs the last of the liquid out of his lungs and gives her a grin. “Ha ha. I'm Jacob.”

     “Mia,” she says, giggling freely. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

     Suspicion blooms in his mind. “How old _are_ you? I'm fourteen.”

     “Twelve,” she admits quietly. His eyes widen.

     “Guess I have a little sister now.”

     His mother's definitely rolling in her grave. Good for her.

**oOo**

     Failure is a part of life. Jacob knows that, understands that, but still can't stop the tears. The best eight years of his life, all gone because of some _asshole_. He cradles his sister's lifeless body, glares furiously at the dead Asari on the ground, and tries to wipe the blood away from her face. It's everywhere though, and all he does is succeed at smearing it more.

     He doesn't understand why, though. Asari very rarely kill someone when they connect mentally. So why did this one? Jacob doesn't know. He doesn't _care_ to know. That bastard took something very precious from him. Fury and hatred war inside of his mind, shadows and slivers that he doesn't understand.

     Maybe his mother was right about alien races after all.

**oOo**

     Cerberus is interesting; dark and shadowy and focused on the benefit of Humanity. Jacob blinks at the recruiter, the beautiful lady with the curly hair, and nods. “I'll join,” he says at last. She smiles, and it's radiant like the sun. He tries very hard to not be blinded by her light.

     Miranda is her name, but she's apparently not very interested in him, her gaze focused on something that he can't see. She's different around him, that he notices, almost like she knows information that he does not. It's very unnerving, actually, and occasionally Jacob can't stop the shiver that flutters down his spin.

     Then Subject Zero--Jack, he thinks her name is--is brought in and Jacob can't help but feel bad for her. Experimented on against her will, biotic power magnified until she's the most powerful thing in the entire lab and hatred burns in her eyes. When Miranda comes to him one evening, blocks the cameras that The Illusive Man has around the base with some ridiculous program on her omni-tool that he's never seen before, and settles herself on the edge of his desk. “Look,” she begins, “I'm getting out of here.”

     “What?” Jacob asks.

     “The Illusive Man isn't doing what's best for mankind, he's just doing what's best for the Reapers. That bastard's been indoctrinated.”

     Jacob blanches.  “What? How do you know that?!”

     She sighs. “Would you believe me if I told you this wasn't my first time living?”

     He stares at her, jaw working, but no sound emerges.

     “Right,” Miranda says and leaps to her feet. “I've already set up the camera loop. It'll come on the moment we unlock the door to your room. I'm going to go free Subject Zero--Jack,” she amends when Jacob frowns at her, “and we'll meet you in the ship bay. Have one ready and waiting for us, will you?”

     Caught up in her enthusiasm and the, admittedly workable, plan, Jacob nods and hurries out of the room.

     Miranda smiles. Game on.


End file.
